


Conduit

by WillowTroy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Creature Draco Malfoy, Creature Fic, Crying During Sex, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda anyway, M/M, Overstimulation, Powerful Harry, Rimming, Slavery, Somnophilia, Submission, Tags to be added, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 67,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowTroy/pseuds/WillowTroy
Summary: AU where the conflict between the Dark Lord and the greater wizarding world has raged for over a decade. Since the night Dumbledore died at Snape’s hand, Draco has lived in terror and regret among the Death Eaters… until his father discovered a way to overwrite Draco’s failure and restore their family to glory and their Lord’s graces. Even at the expense of his only son.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is just for fun, and is entirely unedited and unbeta-ed.

Draco screamed.

He was dying, surely. Pain fiercer and somehow more terrible than the Cruciatus burned through his flesh and boiled in his very veins. He writhed and cried helplessly as the agony throbbed through him in an unrelenting deluge.

He choked on his own tongue, overcome to the point of silence for a moment. In that instant, he could make out the smooth cadence of an incantation, the caster’s voice as consistent and unstoppable as the fiery pain wracking his body. The voice rose in volume and demand, the tone strong and horribly familiar as it finished the spell with a sick pride.

The spell and the pain crested together sharply.

Draco screamed louder. And knew nothing more.

~!~

“Wake up, darling!”

His was sore, his entire body throbbing with remembered pain and very present exhaustion. There was a coppery taste in his mouth.

“Now, Draco!”

He gasped, coming fully awake in an instant.

“Hurry,” He barely made out his mother’s face in the dim glow of her wand before she turned away from him. She had been talking in a frantic whisper and her words seemed only more so as she pulled him out of his bed. “We have to keep quiet and move quickly. It won’t take long before someone discovers the guards at your door have been stunned,”

“Wha… what’s hap… happen… mother?” Draco struggled to form the words; his mouth felt gritty and his tongue almost numb. His head swam as she pulled him upright and tugged a cloak around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, my dragon,” She kissed his temple as she led him out of his childhood home for—he realized at the sight of the two Death Eaters slummed against the hall wall—probably the last time.

“Mother?” he mumbled, suddenly overcome with the urge to sob.

He remembered pain and a vague sense of horror as his father smiled down on him. He remembered the confusion, despite Lucius’ assurance that Draco would finally redeem them in the Dark Lord’s view, that his parents at least would no longer need to fear their position among their pureblooded peers. He remembered hating Lucius and the Dark Lord more fiercely than ever before.

He didn’t remember what they had done to him. He didn’t remember if they’d even bothered to explain.

“You’ll be okay, darling,” Narcissa continued muttering, almost to herself than to him, as she steered him through the house.

They weren’t going out the foyer. They were going through the back garden—Draco recognized the damned peacocks—and somehow ended up in a stone alcove decorated with flowery vines. It only furthered his confusion; this little alcove wasn’t supposed to be here. He had no memory of it from his formative years when he used to play in the gardens, before Lucius decided he was too old to play hide-and-seek with house elves or spend his afternoons smelling flowers with his mother.

Narcissa tapped her wand on a series of stones in the alcove’s wall and a shimmer stole over its surface.

“Come,”

Before Draco could fully appreciate the fact that his mother must have pulled quite the deception on Lucius to create this escape passage, he was passing through it with her hand pushing against his back.

~!~

Narcissa’s clever little alcove bought them only four days in the Black’s vacation home in Saint-Tropez before Lucius nearly found them.

During those months, they learned exactly what Lucius had done to Draco on the Dark Lord’s behalf.

Ironically, Lucius had capitalized on Draco’s pureblood ancestry to make him the most magically-charged creature in all of existence: a Conduit. He had become a vessel for otherwise unreachable levels of magical power. The pain he had felt during the casting was his insides morphing and preparing to accommodate the kind of raw magic normally harnessed by dragons and sphynxes; that is, the kind of magic that a human body normally couldn’t hope to withstand.

He was no longer a wizard. He was now a Conduit. A living totem used to channel magic.

He was a tool.

And all tools, he soon learned, required a user. Draco was could no longer use magic himself. His wand no longer responded to his wishes and he could no longer effectively brew a potion than he could command a broomstick. Even the house elves at the Black mansion could ignore his orders with perfect ease, since they were bound to serve wizardkind and he was, after all, no more a wizard than themselves.  In fact, some might consider him even less than a house elf, since at least those creatures could use magic.

Still, Narcissa had been quite clear and insistent with her demands that the house elves protect Draco from the Dark Lord. So when Lucius followed them to Saint-Tropez, little Dimpsy was wonderfully quick to apparate Draco out of the manor and deposit him in a cozy little hut on the edge of a muggle town in Austria. An hour later, Narcissa joined him.

They lasted two weeks in that little hut, largely spent mourning Draco’s magic and plotting their next moves.

From there, they kept running.

~!~

Fear and motherly love were a potent combination. It fueled Narcissa long after her son had given up. He ate and bathed and dressed and ran when necessary only for her sake, and before the year was out, the once proud lady shamelessly exploited that sense of familial obligation to keep her boy alive and out of the Dark Lord’s reach.

She’d been trying for months to secure them safe passage out of Europe, when she finally found a smuggler who could get them out via the Ukraine. She should have known it was too good to be true.

It was a set up.

Draco seemed to come alive with emotion for the first time in months as he was ripped out of his mother’s desperate grip. He screamed and cried and reached for her like he hadn’t since he was a small boy playing in the garden at her knee.

Narcissa cried silently, full of sorrow and a complicated hope. Sorrow that she would probably never see her son again. Hopeful that he would be safer from the Dark Lord than ever before.

Because it wasn’t the Death Eaters who had finally hunted them down.


	2. Enter: The Chosen One

 “Where have you been,”

“Nice to see you too, Mione,” Harry gave her a tight-lipped smile as he walked past her.

Hermione fell into step beside him with an ease born from familiarity and stubborn perseverance. Both were crucial elements that made her indispensable to The Order and The Ministry; she was the only person from either who could consistently keep their Chosen One in line. More or Less.

“Fine, don’t answer me,” She shrugged off his response as flippantly as he had ignored her greeting. “But if you recall, the Wizengamont is always more palatable when you’re on time. You have no one to thank but yourself,”

Harry rolled his eyes. “They’re never _palatable_ , Mione,”

“No, they’re not,” she agreed readily, “but they give me less grief whenever you do deign to show up,”

“Remind me again why I do?”

“Because despite their bigotry, they are on occasion useful,”

“Still bigots,”

“ _Useful_ bigots, Harry,”

He snorted, but let the comment lie as they reached the conference room. The place was already packed, plenty of elderly witches and wizards seated around the enormous table in their rich robes and sipping tea from fine china cups.

Harry’s muggle trainers and worn jeans stuck out like a Norwegian Ridgeback among iguanas.

Plus, judging from the frowns and foot tapping directed his way, he was clearly the last to arrive. By at least a good half hour.

Harry wasn’t bothered.

He was Harry Potter, The Chosen One. He was 26-years-old and his entire adult life and most of his adolescence had been absorbed in risking his neck, fighting the good fight. The whole world knew by now that he was the only thing standing between them and the Dark Lord’s complete tyranny. That included the elitist, old-school government as well as what remained of The Order under Alastor Moody’s questionable guidance. And Harry himself.

So did he care that a room full of wizarding Britain’s most powerful individuals was waiting on him? Not really.

He was allowed certain… allowances.

“Ah, Mister Potter. Glad you could join us,” Minister Scrimgeour gruffly welcomed him from his place at the head of the table.

Harry opened his mouth to give a more honest reply, but Hermione’s elbow stabbed his side and she all but tossed him into a chair.

“Rude,” he muttered at her.

She glared back at him wordlessly as she crossed her legs and straitened her robes.

“Now then,” Scrimgeour’s voice boomed as he addressed the room at large. His heavy brow furrowed with gravity, like it tended to every time Harry had ever seen him, “The reason I have called you all here at such short notice is because our dear friends at the Wizarding International Conglomerate have reached out to all affiliated nations with significant news indeed,”

A wave of stillness swept over the assembly. Even Harry felt his shoulders tense. WIC had been established when he was still at Hogwarts to monitor international Death Eater and dark magic activity, and had taken to actively pursuing and confronting targets in subsequent years. Usually, they dealt with information, but that was usually handled more covertly. This sort of immediate response, in the light of mid-day no less, was highly unusual.

“Mr. Princeton, if you please,” Scrimgeour waved his hand to a short, bespectacled man with more hair on his face than his head, despite his relative youth. He couldn’t have been more than five years Harry’s senior.

Mr. Princeton pushed his glasses up his nose and as he gathered himself to speak, Harry noticed the silver gleam of WIC’s insignia on his robe’s arm. Harry had never actually met anyone from WIC in person.

Hermione shot him a surprised look that told him she was impressed as well. Side by side, they both sat up straighter in interest.

“Good afternoon,” Princeton spoke in a precise, sharp tone, “I am Agent James Princeton, from the Wizarding International Conglomerate, and I am here because fifteen hours and—” he checked his pocket watch as he spoke, “—thirty-seven minutes ago, one of our task forces intercepted a known dark witch in an attempt to smuggle a highly valuable magical artifact out of the Ukraine Peninsula. Our organization has been aware of increased Death Eater activity in the past year surrounding the package, but it was not until our agents took custody of it that we learned what it was…,”

Here, the wizard flattered, his face heating as he cleared his throat and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Across the room, strategically as far from Harry and Hermione as possible, Dolores Umbridge cleared her throat pointedly. “The artifact, Mr. Princeton?”

“Yes,” He gave her a curt nod and seemed to control himself, except for the blush. “You see, there was no package. Per say. The powerful magic the Dark Witch was transporting was actually a young man. A… well, a Conduit,”

A few sharp inhales. Someone gasped. Hermione’s hand smacked down on Harry’s forearm and she dug her nails into him as shock raced across her face.

The Minister jumped to his feet, nearly bumping into the WIC agent in his haste to address them all. “I know what you’re all thinking—”

“Doubt it,” Harry muttered under his breath, only to have Hermione’s nails dig harder in reprimand.

“—there has not been a fully-actualized Conduit in England in over fifty years,”

“And for good reason!” Madam Bones gave an affronted huff, “What are the chances this young man consented to the ritual?! Honestly!”

There were a few nods and concerned murmurs of agreement around the room.

“Willing or not,” the Minister raised his voice, then continued once he had the floor again, “He is a Conduit, and that makes him indispensable—”

Someone scoffed, offended by the statement. Someone else barked: “It makes him an animal,”

As the room erupted into heated bickering, Harry leaned into Hermione.

“What the hell’s a Conduit?”

“Uh… a very rare magical creature with the ability to channel excess magic for another’s use.” He was trying to decide if she was giving him a direct quote form a book or not, when she shook his shoulder and peered at him earnestly. “I’ll explain more latter. For now, just trust me?”

“With my life,” he didn’t hesitate to respond.

Hermione’s chair skittered back as she jumped up and shouted over the din: “Minister Scrimgeour, as an advisor to this committee and as a concerned citizen, I urge you to give Harry Potter the first chance to Bind the Conduit,”

Several exclamations of outrage steamrolled over her. None were as loud as Umbridge.

“Nonesense! We are at war, you silly girl!” she screamed, “The Conduit will be given a suite in the Ministry where he will remain Unbound and accessible to the Aurors and Unspeakables—”

“Absolutely not!” Madam Bones interjected.

“It is the done thing!” Umbridge smacked her hand on the table. “During war time, Conduits are best utilized—”

“This is _not_ the Great War of 1812!” someone else shouted, sounding scandalized.

“Now, now,” Minister Scrimgeour held up his hands in placation.

He was largely ignored as the room exploded anew with arguments.

Harry had learned the hard way that arguing with the bureaucracy led to nothing but frustration and, most often, disappointment. It was why he refused to join the Aurors when they offered him a position straight out of Hogwarts. Now, as he watched their wrinkled, angry faces shout at one another, he was almost enjoying the idea of sitting back and counting the seconds till the first hex flew. Almost.

One look at Hermione’s pleading face stole the wind from those sails.

With a sigh, he got to his feet and, unnoticed by all the squabbling politicians, he crossed his arms and knocked shoulders with his best friend. “What, exactly, are the stakes here?”

“If you bind this Conduit to you, you’ll be able to protect him and significantly boost the strength of your spell work,” she whispered hurriedly, “If you don’t… it’s fairly likely the Ministry will turn him into a sanctioned prostitute,”

Harry blinked at her. Slowly. “Wait. You’re… not joking?”

Her lips flattened in a fine line, she shook her head. “There’s more to it of course, but that’s the ultimate issue at hand,”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, honestly flummoxed, unsure how to respond to this information. He was no stranger to disagreeing with institutional moral values (or lack thereof), but this… he wasn’t prepared for this.

Though really, he knew himself well enough to know he couldn’t let this fly. He’d given Scrimgeour threats and ultimatums for far less over the years.

“Okay,” He patted Hermione’s arm reassuringly then did what she, in her stringently diplomatic way, wouldn’t do; he shouted loudly and cheerfully enough to get nearly everybody’s attention: “Mr. Princton, is it?!” 

“…Yes?” The man stared at him, brow creased behind his glasses in confusion as Harry stepped up with an outstretched hand.

“Hi. Harry Potter,”

“Oh! Mr. Potter!” Princeton flushed with an awkward grin as he hurried to accept the hand shake. “What an honor—”

“Yes, yes, and _thank_ _you_ for bringing this to our attention,”

Princton didn’t know him well enough to catch his sarcasm, but Scrimgeour saw it coming. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and began warningly, “Potter…”

“You clearly have your hands full here, Minister,” Harry met his eye with a smirk. “So I’d be happy to help out by taking this Conduit off your hands,”

“Now hold on—” Scrimgeour glowered.

“Princton, how’s about we talk logistics over lunch? My treat,”

“Oh! Well… I mean, I would, but—"

“That hasn’t been decided,” Scrimgeour insisted, this time placing his controlling hand on the WIC agent’s shoulder instead, “There is serious precedent for taking Madam Umbridge’s suggestion—”

“Would _The Quibbler_ agree with that?” Harry said casually. Boldy.

“Potter!?” several people shouted, everywhere from shocked to exasperated. He distinctly heard Master Puddlemere's usual mix of amusement and mild rebuke, along with Madam Bone’s resigned aggravation.

A glance behind him and he saw Hermione rubbing her temples in consternation.

“Damn it, Potter,” Scrimgeour growled, “This is not a joke,”

“I never said it was,” Harry agreed readily, “Rather, it’s quite serious that the Ministry once again proves it doesn’t value an individual’s life as highly as its own machinations. But by all means, feel free to explain to _The Prophet_ how Umbridge’s _suggestion_ ,” he spat the word with disgust, “is in this man’s best interest,”

Umbridge scoffed, “Most people who know what a Conduit is won’t care, Potter. He’s not a wizard, not even a Squib. He’s a tool, a _thing_ ,”

“He’s a living, feeling, person!” Hermione cried, glaring daggers at the other witch, “And most likely a victim! That fact needs to be acknowledged,”

“Here, here!” Puddlemere raised his teacup to Hermione with a nod.

Bones stood from the table and gathered her things, as she spoke succinctly and not unkindly, “Let Potter have him; a Binding is what’s best for the Conduit, and there’s no better candidate for the benefits than the Chosen One,”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed readily, “It’s as close to a pragmatic _and_ morally sound solution as anyone here will be able to come up with. Plus it saves you the trouble of bad publicity. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor in that regard,”

Harry didn’t yet know what he’d signed up for, but the murderously sick looks on Scrimgeour’s and Umbridge’s faces reassured him plenty.

~!~

“And here I thought we were saving him from being raped,” Harry glared at Hermione as he dropped the book on top of the parchment she was scribbling on. The heavy text, at least a century old, coughed up a cloud of dust in protest.

Hermione looked up at him with sympathetic eyes. “I take it you read through the ritual, at least?”

Harry’s glare didn’t let up as he snorted. “Oh yeah. That. I read that. Especially the part where it instructs me how, exactly, to become a fucking rapist,”

She winced. “I told you, it was complicated…,”

“Really? Seems disgustingly simple to me, actually,”

“He’s not…,” she looked around helplessly, lost for words in a very un-Hermione-ish way. “Conduits aren’t humans, strictly speaking, Harry. You won’t be hurting him. Arguably, he’ll feel better after—”

“Hermione Granger,” Harry took a step back, genuinely appalled. “Are you seriously justifying this?”

“No! No, I know it’s horrid, no matter how you look at it. It’s shady and wretched, and the reality is that by the nature of his… well, his _nature_ , true consent can never be fully given, at least not by normal, rational human standards. But Harry…,” she looked pained as she pleaded with him, “he’s not human any more. Or not merely human. Like… take Remus for example; due to his condition, the nature of the curse, Remus relates to things like silver and the moon differently than we do. It’s the same principle; Conduits relate to sex _differently_. To him, it’s not about reproduction or love; it’s about release of excess magical energy,”

“Yeah, I get that,” He jabbed a finger at the old tome on the desk between them angrily, “it’s a visceral need for him. Yeah, alright. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have preferences or a sense of bodily autonomy! It’s like he was given a permanent date-rape drug, for crying out loud,”

“Well, not exactly,” Her voice grew steadier as she started thinking critically. “He’s perfectly capable of thinking rationally. It’s just a matter that his sex drive is tied up in his bodily need to process magic,”

Harry sighed in response to the very clinical and dry explanation. “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better,”

Hermione squeezed his wrist comfortingly. “Look, nothing needs to happen right away. We can explain to him his options and let him choose,”

Harry snorted. “Sure. Get fucked by me or get fucked by every combat-ready ministry employee they can find. Some choice,”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Harry,” Hermione pushed the book away and bent over her parchment, frustration evident. “If you’d rather make that choice for him by removing yourself from the situation, go ahead. I happen to know you’re a better man than that,”

~!~

“You’re a better man than me,” Ron admitted less than 24 hours later as he poured them each a whiskey. The full bottle clanked onto the kitchen counter with a heavy, resounding thunk when he let it go.

Harry took the drink wordlessly, almost numb. The whole of his attention was focused on the limp form of Draco Malfoy laid out on his couch, just in view from his seat at the counter. Motionless and unconscious, exactly as he’d been when the WIC agents carried him through the door an hour ago.

Draco bloody Malfoy.

“At least he’s as pretty as he was at Hogwarts,” Ron added, sipping his drink as he settled against the counter at Harry’s side, the both of them staring at Malfoy’s comatose figure. “More so even,”

“Huh,”

Ron helpfully reached over to guide Harry’s hand to his mouth, steadying the glass as the brunet downed his own drink in one desperate go.

They stayed like that for a long, awkward moment, staring. At Draco Malfoy. Draco fucking Malfoy. The Conduit. Harry’s Conduit.

What. The. Hell.

Ron poured them a second round. They drank them down, wordless and swift, hardly any less desperate than the first.

“They…,” Harry cleared his throat loudly. “WIC. They said he was being smuggled out of Europe. The Death Eaters were hunting him…,”

He reached for the bottle of whiskey, needy with disturbing thoughts. Ron handed it to him only after pouring himself another two inches.

“There’s no way he became like this voluntarily,” Ron, following his thinking easily, agreed somberly.

The last time either of them had seen Draco Malfoy, the blond aristocrat was just a terrified boy who hadn’t even the heart for a proper struggle as Harry stole his wand and he and Ron tore through his childhood home in a short but vicious battle with his family. That had been years ago, when they were still children. It was one of several instances that adult-Harry remembered as clear evidence that Draco Malfoy was no more evil than himself.

He had been a child. A scared, impossibly positioned child who’d had as much choice in this war as himself.

Harry remembered everything he’d read about the ritual to create a Conduit, along with the one to Bind one. He immediately cringed and amended that last thought: perhaps Malfoy had been given even less choice in the matter.

“You going to pour, or just stand there holding it like a statue?” Ron grumbled, moving to snag the whiskey from Harry’s lax hand.

Harry hastened to pour, his cup uncommonly full before he let his friend have it. He gulped at it without tearing his eyes from Malfoy.

“He’ll choose you, you know,” Ron said matter-of-factly. “I always thought he had a bit of a thing for you back in school,”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry countered dully. “I’m just the lesser of two evils at this point. Of course he’ll choose me,”

Ron paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “… You’re going through with it then? Even though it’s Malfoy?”

“Yeah. Recon he’s been through enough hell already. And this…. This is the only thing I can do, isn’t it,”

It wasn’t a question, and neither of them seemed surprised by the conclusion.

They drank deeply.


	3. When There Are No Silver Linings

Harry let Malfoy rest as long as possible. Even in sleep, the shadows under his eyes and the sickly pallor to his skin were concerning. He was skinnier than ever, the cut of his collar bone sharp and distinct, and when Harry placed a hand on his side he could feel his alarmingly pronounced ribs. It didn’t take a genius to know that Malfoy hadn’t been enjoying himself in recent years.

“The witch who stole him from the Death Eaters didn’t seem to be feeding him enough,” Princeton had told him upon delivery.

Stole him. Feeding him. It was disturbing how many people seemed to think Malfoy was a lost dog rather than a person.

“Harry?” Ron said softly from the door way. “Mum sent over some soup and bread. Left it in the kitchen,”

He nodded without looking away from Malfoy’s pale face. Harry was sitting on the coffee table, elbows on his knees in contemplation. Trying to figure out how he ended up in this position, with Malfoy under his roof and his responsibility. In his bed. Presumedly.

“She said not to let him eat too much at once,”

“Got it,”

“I’ll come by tomorrow, if you want,” Ron continued, stalling at the door. “Good luck,”

Then Ron was gone and he was alone. With Malfoy. Starved, unconscious, probably traumatized Draco Malfoy.

At least he was clean. If Malfoy had been living in as poor conditions as his body suggested, WIC had at least given him a decent bath. There wasn’t a speck of dirt to be seen anywhere on him, and his hair was beautifully pale and soft looking where it fanned out on the couch pillow. Harry wasn’t so sure if it was a peculiar soap, or Malfoy’s natural scent itself, but even from the coffee table his nose caught something elusively familiar and deeply pleasing. It made him think of a heavily watered-down Amortentia in its raw appeal.

Ron was right too; Malfoy was pretty, despite his poor condition. He wasn’t on the level of a veela, there was no overwhelming, obsessive draw. The smell and sight of him though… it was something else. The longer he looked at him and considered the strong likelihood of taking him to bed, the more he wanted to touch him.

According to most of the wizarding world, he apparently had every right to do just that. He felt like a creep even thinking such a thought. It didn’t stop him from brushing the hair off Malfoy’s forehead, or tracing the long line of his nose, then running the back of a finger along his jaw. Letting his fingertips dance gentle along that pronounced collarbone.

Merlin, but his skin was soft. Warm. Inviting.

He’d never thought of Malfoy sexually back when they’d known each other, at Hogwarts. But they weren’t kids anymore. Malfoy didn’t look like a pointy, stuck up kid anymore.

It was easy to imagine pulling the too-big WIC robes from Malfoy’s prone form and keep on touching. Maybe he’d wake up, hard and too far gone to turn back, and he’d whine and beg for Harry to keep going. And Harry had no doubt that he _would_ keep going, his cock was already so hard.

He was looking forward to this.

“I’m going to hell,” Harry realized aloud as he pulled his hand away.

~!~

“So… where’s Malfoy?” Ron asked cheerily as he came through the floo.

“I moved him upstairs to the guestroom,” Harry admitted, not bothering to look up from the ancient book on Conduits. He’d been reading ever since he tucked his charge into a proper bed. He didn’t want to miss anything, make any mistakes.

“He’s still asleep?” Hermione frowned, having come through the fire on Ron’s heels. They were both weighed down with bags, at least until Hermione tossed hers onto the couch beside Harry. “I should think he’d be awake by now. That Ukranian healer said he didn’t have any injuries or illness,”

“Relax, Mione,” Ron headed to the adjoining kitchen with his bags. “He’s been through a lot. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept for a few more days,”

“He needs to eat, Ronald,”

“So pour a nourishment potion down his throat and let him be,”

“We can’t,” Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in aggravation as he finally looked up from the book. “It won’t work on him,”

Ron’s face scrunched in confusion, “Why not?”

“Because he’s a conduit,” Harry responded without inflection.

“It’s one of the side effects of his condition,” Hermione explained. “Just as he cannot use magic, magic cannot be used on him. His body is designed to harness raw magic, to channel it or even store it, but specifically not to interact with it,”

“So no potions?” Ron asked, alarmed, “Spells won’t work on him?”

“Correct,”

“Blimey,” Ron looked queasy as he considered it, “Never thought I’d feel so bad for Malfoy,”

“How times have changed,” Hermione gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“D’you recon he can still play wizard’s chess?” Ron wondered aloud as he set his bags on the counter and started unloading food stuffs. “Exploding Snap? Blimey, he probably can’t even ride a broom anymore,”

“I don’t know about the chess,” Hermione admitted. “But flying requires magical interaction with the broomstick, so that’s definitely a thing of the past,”

“Merlin,” Harry huffed, throwing himself back into the couch in a fit, “He’ll never fly again. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on how shitty this is…,”

“Seriously,” Ron picked up where Harry’s voice trailed off. “To suddenly lose all your magic? Not just your wand, but all of it? He’s got less to do with magic than a squib. Hell, even muggles can at least feel magic and interact with it a bit. I’d rather be dead, honestly,”

“Yeah. I know,”

“Well...,” Hermione squirmed uncertainly, hazarding a hopeful angle. “It’s not like he’s always totally bereft. I mean, he, well. You know,”

“No, actually,” Harry frowned at her.

“We literally don’t know,” Ron added.

She rolled her eyes at them. “His magical ability is part of his sexuality. He may not have access to magic often, but according to the journal of Head Auror Grisnick—”

Over her head, Ron caught Harry’s eye and mouthed: “Who?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder sharply to spy him. “The last recorded person to Bind a Conduit,”

“Ah,” Ron returned to restocking the kitchen with a wave, “Continue,”

“According to Grisnick, his Conduit got far more than physical pleasure from their couplings. She apparently told him orgasms were like being enveloped by magic itself. So Draco should still be able to feel magic and appreciate it, you know,” She gave an awkward shrug and refused to meet their eyes. “At least… in theory,”

“Huh,” Ron considered that for a moment, nonplussed.

Harry just starred at his book, unseeing as he imagined what Malfoy might be like at that precise, powerfully and physically charged moment. He got a majorly inappropriate boner for his trouble.

After discreetly shifting his legs beneath the helpful cover of the book, Harry said, “That makes a sick sort of sense. There’s plenty in here about how Conduits crave sex. If it’s the only way they can access magic again, no wonder they all turn into nymphomaniacs,”

Hermione’s frown returned, deeper than ever. “I think muggles do something like that to victims of sex trafficking with drugs. But at least Conduits enjoy the sex, from what I’ve read,"

“It’s still a matter of addiction,” Harry argued.

“I don’t disagree, Harry,” she placated, “But stop comparing yourself to some sexual predator. Draco’s situation is largely outside of your control, all you can do is help in the one uncomfortable avenue available to you,”

“Besides,” Ron was all forced cheerfulness as he brandished a baguette at them, “At least now he’s not on the run and we know he’ll have enough to eat. By the way, mind if I steal some of this pasta? Mum sent us with enough food for an army, and I doubt Malfoy will be able to stomach much of it within the next month,”

“Knock yourself out,”

“I don’t suppose now’s a good time to ask,” Hermione leaned forward with an air of utter disconcert. “But Moody wants to know if you’ll show up for the induction of the Order’s newest recruits,”

Harry starred at her blankly, “What do you think?”

After Dumbledore’s death, McGonagall and Mad-eye took charge of the Order of the Phoenix and it turned out to be the beginning of the end, as far as Harry was concerned. Mad-eye became obsessed with training Harry to be some sort of weapon to be wielded against the corrupt Ministry and the Death Eaters alike, which was directly counter to McGonagall’s well-meaning, but still rather extreme stance that Harry should be kept safe and innocent for as long as possible. Apparently learning that Dumbledore had been raising Harry like a lamb to slaughter had come as a shock to the new Headmistress and she’d done little more than let her guilt and shame over Harry’s corrupted childhood dictate her decisions since.

Neither approach had worked for Harry, of course, especially after he, Ron and Hermione had successfully taken off for a year to focus on hunting Horcruxes, The Order seemed too busy trying to decide what to do with him to get anything done. It had been almost easy when Harry had decided to leave the Order behind at the young age of seventeen, taking Hermione (most days) and the Weasleys with him.

It didn’t stop Moody from trying to reign him in again though. Usually, it included promises of favors and intelligence, but occasionally he made a play for Harry’s sympathies. Like now.

“Or you could just tell him I’m not going to encourage more teenagers to martyr themselves for him,” Harry countered Hermione’s excuse.

“Or!” Ron cackled at him, “You could actually go, and spend the whole time telling them they should join the Aurors if they want to die for the cause!"

“At least then they’ll have proper funding and equipment,” Hermione defended half-heartedly. It was a long-standing argument between them: she saw value in the Ministry’s and Order’s resources and intel, where Harry and Ron only saw questionable morals and irritating red tape. “Not that it matters. I already told him you wouldn’t be there,”

“Then why bother asking me?”

Hermione’s flippancy evaporated as he stared at her. Instead, she looked sheepish and contrite. “I may have mentioned you’d be preoccupied with your new… Conduit situation,”

And just like that, what lingered of Harry’s inconvenient erection wilted completely. “The Order knows about Malfoy?”

She was avoiding eye contact again. “To be fair, I didn’t know who he was at the time,”

“So what,” Ron dropped into the recliner nearest the fireplace, cradling a butterbeer. “Moody’s got spies besides you in the Ministry,”

“I’m not a spy,” Hermione interjected dully. Her exact position and title was another long-time disagreement between them.

Ron waved her off. “Moody was bound to find out sooner or later anyway, mate. It’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist over,”

Harry gaped at them. “Ron. He’s been here less than a blasted day! I haven’t even spoken with him yet! He is _not Bound to me_!”

Ron stiffened as Harry stressed his point heatedly. Hermione winced, but her lack of surprised told him she’d already known where he was headed with this. Probably before she flooed in.

Harry jumped to his feet, glaring down at her. “Tell me he’s not going to try to take Malfoy,”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Would I be this relaxed if I thought that likely? Honestly, Harry,”

“So…?” Ron ventured slowly, “what’s going on here, guys? Care to clue me in?”

“Moody’s willing to let it be, provided you prove the Binding by the end of the week,” Hermione stated in her annoyingly professional voice, “Otherwise, he’ll appeal to the Wizengamont for the Order to have access to him along side the Aurors and Unspeakables,”

Ron spat out his butterbeer. “You can’t be serious!?”

Harry shook his head, furious. “McGonagal won’t let them,”

“She won’t have a choice,” Hermione countered. “Moody will go straight to the Minister himself. And you know Scrimgeour will jump for the chance to lock Draco up and let anyone he deems useful at him. There’s grounds for Moody and Scrimgeour to technically sue you for misappropriation of magical assets,”  

“He’s a bloody person!” Harry shouted.

Hermione sounded distraught as she said, “Not legally,”

“Fuck!” Harry stomped away from the couch and the damned book that was no help at all. Going nowhere fast, in more ways than one.

“You said he has till the end of the week, right?” Ron asked earnestly, “Then there’s time. Harry, you still have time,”

“Two days, Ron,” Harry growled, “I have two days to explain things to him and hopefully convince him to look on my raping him as a good thing,”

“Well, when you put it like that,” came a cool drawling voice.

Harry froze, his head whipped around so fast he felt a brief pain in his neck. Draco Malfoy stood on his staircase, looking impossibly tiny and resigned.


	4. This Isn't Working

Two hours later, Harry was convinced the ritual that made Malfoy a Conduit must have done brain damage. At the very least. Maybe it rewrote his personality entirely. Who knew.

He was also convinced that there was something very, very wrong with Malfoy. Besides the Conduit business.

“Draco…,” Hermione said in a soft tone that told him she was thinking the same thing.

The blond seemed so… small. Lesser. The theatric gusto he had always exhibited as a schoolboy was nowhere to be seen. He sat at Harry’s kitchen island listlessly, his shoulders boney and sharp beneath the WIC robe he still wore even though it practically smothered him. He wasn’t avoiding eye contact, per say, but he was making absolutely no effort to lift his head. Those grey eyes simply stared tiredly at whatever spot they ended up on.

“Eat,” Ron repeated himself for the third time at least, not so softly, and stretched out an arm to nudge the bowl of soup closer to Malfoy.

Malfoy’s gaze flickered to the bowl for half a second before landing disinterestedly on the counter next to it. He seemed to shrink in on himself, rubbing his hands together in his lap as he claimed, “I’m not particularly hungry,” again.

Harry caught Hermione’s eye as Ron stomped around the kitchen in a huff. She nodded back at him.

One thing was certain: no one had starved Malfoy. Harry didn’t even think he was intentionally starving himself. Rather, it seemed Malfoy just didn’t care. In the entire time they’d been explaining the situation to him, he’d been nothing but polite and utterly disinterested.

It was jarring. Wrong.

“At least drink something,” Ron grumbled, setting a cup of tea in front of the blonde. He was clearly unsettled as well by Malfoy’s nonexistent attitude.

They all held their breath as Malfoy deigned to turn the cup in a circle and slowly, shakily take it between his palms. He didn’t raise it to his mouth though. He just… sat there. Holding the mug. Staring blankly at the countertop.

Hermione sighed. Ron threw up his hands in futility and shook his head.

Harry could relate. He sat forward abruptly and grabbed Malfoy’s wrist in a firm hold that had his fingers overlapping considerably around the skinny flesh.

Malfoy went even more still, as if that was possible. His deadened gaze sluggishly shifted to where Harry gripped him and stayed there.

Harry waited a moment to make sure he had as much of Malfoy’s attention as the blonde was capable of giving. When he spoke, he kept his words calm and clear:

“Malfoy. Do you understand what has to happen? Do you understand why… why doing this with me is better for you?”

He was silent for a long time, it seemed. Then Malfoy blinked and finally met Harry’s eyes, “Yes, Potter,”

Somehow, he wasn’t reassured. He squeezed Malfoy’ wrist carefully. “Really?”

Malfoy gave the slightest nod, maybe the faintest hint of a shrug. “Yes. I understand perfectly, Potter. I just don’t care,”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Behind him, he thought he heard Hermione sniffle.

~!~

“This is wrong,” Harry muttered even as he drew the necessary runes on the wall of his bedroom.

“No shit,” Ron agreed. He was making himself useful by providing snacks and emotional support. Mostly, he was sitting on Harry’s bed, eating said snacks himself.

Hermione paused in the middle of drawing her assigned rune on the opposite wall and glared at them before snapping, “Would you prefer Malfoy and his wellbeing be left to the Ministry, then? No? Then get over it. We can worry about his mental state once we’ve ensured his physical safety. One thing at a time, boys,”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry continued drawing. “You won’t be the one responsible if he offs himself,”

“I really don’t think he has an interest in taking a more active approach, Harry,” she said flippantly, “And we have time yet to stop him starving himself to death, so let’s just focus on this immediate problem for now,”

“I called it,” Ron said morosely, “I said I’d rather be dead, didn’t I,”

“Not helpful, Ronald,”

“You say that like there’s help to be had,”

Privately, Harry worried Ron was onto something.

~!~

The Conduit remained quiet and still, wholly unassuming, and remained perched on the kitchen barstool the entire time Harry and Hermione had been preparing for the Binding ritual. Ron had gone down to check on him periodically, and came back antsier and antsier each time with nothing new to report. Malfoy had eaten an apple and finished two cups of hot tea over the course of the day, and that was it. Harry would give his wand to know what was going through his pretty blonde head at the end of it.

That evening, Malfoy followed Harry into his bedroom without hesitation and equally without interest.

Harry watched him stare blankly at the neatly made bed and he wanted to scream. Instead, Harry shrugged off his robe and sighed, “This isn’t going to happen with your clothes on,”

Malfoy glanced over at him, then at the spot where his robe had fallen on the floor. “Right,” he said calmly.

Turns out, Malfoy had been delivered to him in a WIC agent’s spare robe and literally nothing else. The robe hit the floor with a dull thump as Harry glanced down to unbutton his belt. When he raised his head, he was greeted with long legs and acres of flawlessly pale skin. Malfoy was disturbingly thin, yes, but anyone could tell he’d be gorgeous with a bit of meat on his bones.

“Blimey,” Harry whispered.

Malfoy looked at him again, and this time Harry thought he saw a flicker of some undefined emotion cross his face. It was gone in a blink. Malfoy turned away and crawled onto the bed.

Harry’s cock twitched with interest but didn’t harden. One would think having a beauty like Malfoy crawl across one’s bed would be sure to get a guy going, but there was just something… something _wrong_. Malfoy’s hips didn’t move quite right, his face was too stoic, his limbs too rigid.

It wasn’t sexy. Not in the slightest.

Harry rubbed his palms over his face roughly. “This isn’t going to work,”

Malfoy stretched out on his stomach and rested his head on his folded forearms, his face turned away. Even so, Harry thought he heard more emotion in Malfoy’s voice now than he had all day as he said, “Why not, Potter?”

Why?! Because with Malfoy’s pale, perfect ass within arm’s reach, Harry only felt sorrow.

“I’m not exactly in the mood,” He frowned, rebuttoning his trousers. It was possible to do the Binding without Malfoy being interested, but it just wasn’t possible without his own cock on board.

Malfoy sat up, and Harry felt even worse when he noticed the other man’s arms tremble with fatigue. He was just too weak, the muscles lax with disuse and too little nourishment. Harry felt suddenly certain that Malfoy wouldn’t survive whatever the Ministry and the Order would do to him.

“What can I do?” Malfoy asked as he perched on the edge of the bed.

Harry gave a choked off laugh, incredulous and aggravated. He couldn’t believe Malfoy had just… offered to… he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Just… give me a minute,” He stalked away and yanked the bedroom door open, then paused to shoot the Conduit an uncomfortable look. “Maybe… I don’t know, Malfoy. Maybe you could… I just,” he made a sound of frustration, than spat out in a confident tone that was actually all bravado: “It helps if my bed partners are at least turned on,”

He shut the door behind him.

~!~

Harry didn’t go downstairs. Well, he did. He just didn’t stay there. Without robes or a belt, his shirt still untucked, Harry pocketed a handful of galleons and stormed out. He apparated off the doorstep before he could second-guess himself, and with a sudden, soul-deep exhaustion found himself at the corner between Diagon and Knockturn alleys.

It was a perfect location for an unobtrusive little sex shop. Too classy, not to mention widely marketed, for Knockturn. Still slightly too shady and scandalous for Diagon. Harry had been inside once or twice over the years.

Never for this though.

He went straight to the counter, and the look on his face must have been something else because the smiling sales clerk lost his charming affect in exchange for alarm. In the three seconds it took Harry to reach the counter, the poor man looked almost frightened.

“Er… how may I… help… you?”

Harry smacked a palm-full of galleons on the counter and huffed, “I need an aphrodisiac. Something fast, and just enough for one round. And it can’t interfere with a ritual casting,”

The frightened look didn’t quite leave the clerk’s face, but his eye brows disappeared into his hairline and his shoulders relaxed the tiniest fraction. He didn’t meet Harry’s glaring stare as he asked with all forced professionalism, “Enough for two parties then?”

“…,”

“Sir, I should tell you, I am morally obligated to report suspicious sales—,”

“Merlin’s Beard,” Harry’s laugh was short and almost hysterical, “Sure, you do that. In the meantime, how about you sell me the bloody potion already, yeah? One, singular dose. Just for me. Which I am taking voluntarily,”

The clerk nodded and hurried off into a back room.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned and smacked his forehead on the countertop.

~!~

Malfoy was left alone, naked on his bed for a grand total of twenty minutes. Harry downed the potion right outside the door and didn’t open it until he knew it’d taken full effect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, practically whined rather.

The Conduit hadn’t been idle in his absence. Malfoy was leaning back against his headboard, eyes closed and breathing just a little heavy, because no matter his recent disinterest no one could remain unaffected when they had three fingers up their ass. Malfoy’s cock, thank Merlin, was pink and erect and absolutely perfect.

There were no gasps or moans, and Malfoy’s blank facial expression hardly twitched despite his slightly parted lips.

Still. Harry could work with this. He’d already taken the potion to ensure it anyway, even if the sight before him now was plenty arousing on its own.

Harry neared the bed, realized he was going to enjoy this, and hated himself for it.


	5. The Awakening, Sexual and Otherwise

Draco supposed he was thankful he ended up with Potter. The Chosen One was a far better option than either he or his mother had dared hope for. At least Potter wouldn’t abuse him, probably wouldn’t even touch him again once the necessary Binding was in place. Draco was okay with that.

Objectively, Potter was attractive. He always had been, and Draco was okay with that too.

Potter couldn’t get it up, didn’t want to bed him, probably didn’t want to even touch him. Draco told himself he was okay with that too. He pushed the glimmer of shame and hurt into the recesses of his mind and focused on the task at hand instead. Potter didn’t have to be attracted to him to help him escape a fate barely better than that of the Dark Lord’s whore.

After realizing what Lucius had done to him, Draco hadn’t expected to ever feel good again. How could he, when all he’d ever known had been ripped away from him. And Merlin knew, the Dark Lord had no interest in giving Draco pleasure. It wasn’t necessary. He was just a tool, after all. A toy for the Dark Lord to sate himself and channel limitless power through.

Potter would at least be kind enough to try and make it good for him, he thought. The least Draco could do was try to make it easier for him.

“Fuck,”

By the time he heard Potter return, Draco had coaxed himself to full hardness for the first time in years. It wasn’t entirely surprising, Potter was a significantly more appealing prospect than any Draco had been presented with since his ill-advised flight from Hogwarts.

What was surprising? The way Potter caught his ankle and yanked him around to the edge of the bed.

Draco gasped despite himself, his eyes popping open. “Potter?”

“You’re dry,” Potter murmured, kneeling on the floor between Draco’s spread knees. “Let me just… here,”

Then broad hands were pressing on his inner thighs and the warm brush of air and a barely-there scratch of stubble paved the way for Potter’s mouth on him.

“…Oh…,” Draco said softly, throat suddenly dry as he tried to process what was happening. The sensation. He’d never… well. He’d had a blowjob before, and he certainly wasn’t a virgin, but this… It took an embarrassingly long, undetermined time for Draco’s shock to give way enough for him to actually _feel_ what was happening.

Draco gulped air greedily, quiet in his surprise, feeling right on the edge of panic.

It was wet and warm and the old Draco probably would have called the sensation bloody _delightful_. He was already fairly loose, thanks to his earlier ministrations, but Potter’s tongue and lips made him slick and malleable, softening him up until Draco felt himself practically melt. He was opening for Potter easily, almost eagerly.

“… Oh, my!” Draco whispered so softly he doubted Potter heard him over the sound of his slurping.

Potter was hardly quiet himself. The man was breathing loud and heavy, excitedly even, just filthy puffs of air between busy lips and gently nipping teeth. Then Potter gave a low, rumbling hum just before pointing his tongue and stabbing it into Draco.

“Potter!?”

Draco’s scream was loud and wonderfully scandalized, even to his own ears.  He shot up onto his elbows, his heart racing as he peered down for his first look at Harry Potter, Chosen One, feasting between his legs.

Potter pulled away with a passing lick at Draco’s balls. “Yeah?” He tilted his head and frowned at Draco’s face and sheepishly asked, “Too much?”

Draco gaped at him. He hadn’t the foggiest notion how to respond.

Potter reached up and gave his cock a thrilling tug, the frown twitching upward into the beginning of a smirk. “Or not enough?”

Draco cleared his throat and looked around the room almost fretfully. He suddenly found it intensely uncomfortable to look at the wizard.

There was a hint of a grin in Potter’s voice as he nudged Draco back against the bed and said, “Try to relax for me,”

“I don’t think this is strictly necessary, Potter,”

Potter snorted as he crawled over to his bedside table. “You think so, do you,”

Draco raised his head to see Potter return with a clear jar. “What’s that?”

Potter shot him an unimpressed look. “Lube,”

Blushing, Draco dropped his head back onto the mattress. He’d never seen it in a jar, honestly; he’d always conjured it directly where it was needed. But of course, that wasn’t an option for Draco anymore. The thought was terribly sobering.

Before his cock had a chance to catch up with his brain and flag, Potter was swallowing him down and slipping two slick fingers inside him. A couple precise thrusts and few swirls of his tongue, and he’d rather effectively distracted Draco and delayed whatever downward spiral he’d started. And then he kept going.

Merlin and Morgan, but Potter knew what he was doing.

Before Draco knew what was even going on, he was suddenly on the precipice of an epic orgasm. For the first time since he was a teenager, Draco felt that delectable jolt creep up and down his spine, pooling in his groin and making everything in him go tight and vibrating with need.

That was when he felt the magic.

Draco let out a short scream as his eyes watered from the realization. He found it! His magic! It wasn’t gone! It. Was. Right. Here! Inside him, around him, he could suddenly feel it everywhere, pulsing with life and an eagerness to be used, to be harnessed.

But it was wild like his magic had never been before. If it weren’t for the profound relief and surprise at reconnecting with magic again, it probably would had frightened him in its overwhelming chaos. As it was, it crashed over him in an undeniable wave that left him euphoric and breathless in a way that made the physical release of orgasm pale in comparison.

Slowly he came back to himself, panting and trembling with bodily satisfaction and profound, soul-searing joy at having reconnected with his magic. His cock was still kicking, the last, weak spurts of cum dribbling from the tip. Potter’s fingers—four of them now, apparently—left him with a squelch that sent shivers through his entire being.

“Beautiful,” he heard Potter whisper.

The word reached Draco’s ears as if from a distance. He felt drunk. Floaty. Relaxed and amazed. After a year bereft of all magic, the one constant, never-changing or corruptible part of him… it was indescribable. He wasn’t swarmed by it, caught in the wild magic’s maelstrom any longer, but he could feel its presence lingering in his veins. It collected and coalesced every few breathes deep in his guts, in his groin, but only for a delicious moment before washing away. It kept coming back though, a momentary pang of power and pleasure not unlike the lapping of waves.

“Merlin, look at you,” Potter was still muttering, the words nearly meaningless to Draco.

He was completely lax and unconcerned as Potter climbed on top of him. He ripped his shirt out of his pants almost distractedly and spared only the moment necessary to shove his wasitband down enough to free his cock. Draco felt his leg get hitched over Potter’s arm, then there was the gentle pressure of a cockhead swiping over his hole.

“You,” It occurred it Draco that Potter’s voice sounded peculiarly gruff. The affected quality made sense to him even if the words didn’t. “Oh, you… you’re bloody electric, you are,”

Potter hardly needed to put any force behind the first thrust, Draco’s body let him in so easily.

“Fuck,” Potter groaned.

Draco’s head was still spinning from magic and his own pleasure, but he gathered enough presence of mind just in time to appreciate the gentle glide and the way Potter’s cock sent shudders of over-stimulation through his being. He moaned softly.

Potter showed no sign of hearing him. He was clearly distracted by his own need. The dark haired wizard didn’t bother with a slow build or any pretense of love-making; rather, it was like he threw his hips into a straight sprint to the finish. His cock rammed into him in fast, but impressively smooth jabs.

Foggily, Draco thought it should have hurt. Instead, all he could feel was the tingling way the magic pushed and pulled in his veins, in the space between his legs, keeping in time with the motion of Potter’s cock. It stumbled and stuttered in the same rare moments that Potter lost his rhythm. And it grew stronger the closer Potter got to his finish.

And all the while, the physical stimulation sent little shocks of pleasure that were always so terrifyingly close to _too much_. His own cock gave a confused twitch. Draco chose not to dwell on any particular sensation and instead closed his eyes and just let it all play out on his body how it would.

The magic. The sex. Potter. All of it. In the haze, he figured they were practically all the same thing, anyway.

“— _meum et solum meum ut sis_ ,” Potter, he belatedly realized at some point, had begun incanting between panting breaths, “ _Religo te, corpus et potentiam, meum et solum meum ut sis. Religo te, corpus et potentiam, meum et solum meum ut sis. Re-religo te, corpus_ —"

Potter’s voice grew fiercer, the words harsher and more guttural till he was practically growling. With his eyes closed, Draco found it easy to imagine that Potter was the creature instead of himself.

“ _Religo te, corpus et potentiam, meum et solum meum ut sis,_ ” Potter repeated one more time, ending in a broken groan muffled by his mouth pressing to Draco’s shoulder.

It all stopped. The fluidity of the magic. The motion of Potter’s body inside and atop his. The heated spell casting. Everything went still, frozen.

Potter’s hips locked tight against him and he gasped wetly against Draco’s skin. As if the world had been waiting for this signal, waiting for Potter’s permission, the stillness ended as abruptly as it had settled.

And the world exploded.

~!~

Harry’s body went impossibly rigid and tense as the ritual effectively opened a bond between the Conduit and himself. All at once, he went from having pretty good sex to feeling like he’d been struck by a suspiciously sensual bolt of lightning.

He’d started as his own person with Malfoy a gorgeous and hot, totally separate being. Except then he started to cum, and suddenly he didn’t recognize the feeling of his own skin.

All there was, was Magic and Heat and—Oh, Sweet Merlin— pure, unadulterated Power. It was new, but strangely familiar; it was inherently different than his own, natural magic, yet comfortable and attractive and indubitably ready to obey his command just as readily as any talent he’d be born with.

It was so overwhelming and wonderful, he almost didn’t notice the earth-shattering orgasm.

Almost.

He collapsed on top of Malfoy, and as the new magic’s thrumming receded to the not-so-overwhelming edge of his awareness, he realized his balls were just a tad sore from the forceful way they’d emptied.

He pulled out of Malfoy with a trembling groan, “Blimey, Malfoy, that was… Well, fuck,”

Malfoy was completely passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Google Translate (not), but mostly Goddessprotectus, the incantation should translate to something along these lines:  
> *I bind you, body and might, to be mine and mine alone.


	6. Turning Corners and Moving Onwards

Draco woke up in Potter’s bed, naked and alone. He had been neatly tucked under the covers and the runes from the ritual had been washed off the walls. There was no visible sign of what had happened the night before.

But Draco knew. He could still feel, faintly, a dull tingling in his fingertips and a quiet thrill through his veins. And yes, there was a distinct soreness in his backside as well. Almost hesitantly, Draco clenched down, testing the soreness, and was pleasantly surprised to find the action inspired a slightly fresher rush of magic up his spine. It wasn’t enough to use, probably less than a squib could feel when they held a wand, but to Draco…

To Draco, who had thought magic was lost to him, it was everything.

And yes, the reminder of a good shag wasn’t half bad either.

Blushing, Draco tugged the blankets up to his chin and hesitantly trailed his fingers down his belly. It had been so long since he’d had any semblance of desire, since long before Lucius’ betrayal that had corrupted his body and magic. He almost didn’t recognize the impulse, even felt the slightest bit dirty, like a child on the cusp of puberty. He touched himself gently, almost frightened as he grew hot and hard beneath the covers.

He closed his eyes and thought about the way Potter had practically manhandled him across that very same bed. How Potter had licked at him. How he’d brought Draco right over the edge and in the same moment had given him back his long-lost connection to magic.

“Ah…,” Draco kept his moans quiet, embarrassed even though no one was around.

His hips jerked and his fist tightened around himself. His buttocks clenched and brought a lovely ache along with that barely-there sweep of magic. Maybe it was imagined. Maybe it was just a visceral memory. No matter, it was _good_.

He came, making a perfect mess of Potter’s sheets. But there was no rush of magic as there had been last night.

Draco cried.

~!~

Hermione had told him not to worry, so Harry wasn’t going to. He wasn’t worried. Not in the slightest.

Malfoy had been entirely unresponsive from the moment Harry had completed the ritual to the moment he had tucked the blond into bed and left him. He’d floo-called Hermione immediately afterword to confirm the Bond was in place, but her reassurance that Malfoy’s comatose reaction wasn’t unwarranted was nice too. Harry wasn’t sure if he’d be able to live with himself if he’d done the poor sod more harm.

He was still kicking himself over how much he’d enjoyed himself last night. Even the decidedly _unnecessary_ bit.

So while Malfoy slept it off, Harry busied himself with all his not-worrying. He brushed up on his house-hold charms and redecorated the guestroom, aiming for something Malfoy would appreciate and ending up simply recreating a muted version of what he imagined the Slytherin dorms must have looked like. Then he hit the bathrooms with a few cleansing charms with just a tad too much gusto. He was alarmed to realize the spellwork came easily, too easily, with only a single swipe of his wand executing an entire room's cleaning and decorating with an efficiency and thoroughness he certainly hadn't been capable of yesterday. He chose not to dwell on the foreign magic tingling under the skin of his wand hand. 

He kept himself busy. Deep cleaned every room but his bedroom. Reorganized the kitchen. Alphabetized his relatively minor library like Hermione had been pestering him to do for years. Cooked. Not sure what, but he used as many of the groceries Ron had brought as he could think what to do with.  He even ate a bit of it.

He wasn’t worrying though. Or thinking about the Conduit Magic even as he used it. 

It was well after noon when Harry decided it was reasonable for him to check on Malfoy. He reheated the soup Molly had made and carted it and a cup of tea upstairs. He knocked on the door to his own bedroom.

“Come in,”

Malfoy was still in bed, curled up against the headboard with the blanket over his lap.

“Hey,” Harry said with an awkward smile. The sight of all that pale skin was distracting. “I think you should try to eat something,”

He set the tray on the bed beside Malfoy, not really expecting the blond to acknowledge the food any more than he had the previous day.

Malfoy glanced at the tray at least, then frowned up at him with uncertainty. “I don’t suppose… I could have something to wear?”

“Of course!” Kicking himself for not thinking of it, Harry hurried over to his closet as he called over his shoulder, “Not sure what I have that’ll fit you, but we can go shopping if you like. I don’t have any commitments for the next few days, so it’s no problem,”

He already knew he didn’t have anything that would fit Malfoy. Harry had been something of a late bloomer, and he’d shot up shortly after Hogwarts, not to mention packing on a not insignificant amount of muscle as a byproduct of training and fighting a war in the years since. Even if Malfoy hadn’t been wasting away lately, his build suggested he’d still be as slender as the boy he knew from Hogwarts. He would practically be swimming in anything of Harry’s.

But Harry remembered the stiff WIC robe Malfoy had shown up in. The agent it originally donned but might have even been bigger still, and professional working robes like that weren’t meant to be worn against bare skin.

So Harry dug into the corners of his closet to unearth a several-years-old sweater and a pair of muggle sweatpants (at least they had a drawstring that should cinch tight enough). Clothes in hand, Harry exited the closet, saying, “And I’ll get you a towel so you can wash up too—,”

Harry cut himself off in surprise. Malfoy was eating. He’d finished more than half the bowl of soup already, it seemed.

The blond must have felt Harry’s stare, or noticed the sudden way he’d stopped talking. Malfoy looked up with the spoon still between his lips and his fine brows rose enquiringly after Harry’s staring. It was the most expressive he’d been since WIC had dropped him on Harry’s couch. By far.

Suddenly, Harry could see something of his old schoolyard rival in the frail person in front of him.

At Harry’s continued gawking, Malfoy lowered the spoon and licked his lips, one hand raising to his brush his chin almost self-consciously. “What?”

Harry shook himself out of the stupor with a shrug. “Uh, nothing, just… hungry, were you?”

Immediately, Harry wished he hadn’t said it. The emotion on Malfoy’s face dimmed and his chin lowered till he was staring at the bowl. He looked closed off but somehow… well, Harry was not gifted at reading people, but he thought Malfoy might have looked self-conscious.

Deciding to pretend not to see the reaction, Harry carried on good naturedly, “Good. You need it. You had us worried yesterday, actually,”

Malfoy’s head lifted at that. He gave Harry an indecipherable look, so much complicated emotion on his face that Harry was shocked that he was seeing it on the same face that had been so blank and unmoved yesterday. That Malfoy wouldn’t have acknowledged him, wouldn’t have looked so emotional about whatever thoughts were so nearly about to jump off his lips. But the old Malfoy, Hogwarts Malfoy, certainly wouldn’t have bit his tongue like he was now, either.

Harry paused at the door, suddenly convinced that it was important he encourage Malfoy to talk. “What’s up, Malfoy?”

They stayed there in silence, looking at each other, for a long while as Malfoy chose his words. “… Why did you help me? Why are you helping me?”

The genuine confusion on his handsome, nearly pretty, face seemed so sad to Harry. He did him the courtesy of weighing his response just as carefully before speaking. “You’re not— you’ve never been evil, Malfoy. Anything bad you’ve done, I recon you’ve more than paid for it by now. And this whole situation, no one deserves this. If taking you in is the only thing I can do to help, then... well, I guess I’d be a rather shitty person if I didn’t,”

Another complicated flash of emotion crossed Malfoy’s face as he pondered that answer. Finally, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a weak memory of a smirk and he murmured mirthlessly, “Saint Potter,”

“That’s me,” Harry grinned unashamedly, then waved his hand to indicate down the hall. “I’ll bring you a towel and leave the clothes in the bathroom. Take as long as you need and I’ll have another bowl of soup in the kitchen when you’re done,”

Malfoy nodded and turned his attention back to the last bit of food currently in front of him. And that was how Harry left him.

~!~

Harry had noticed the effects of the Bonding all morning, obviously. His cleaning charms had never been so effortlessly effective, and he’d had to redo a few tidying charms simply because the first attempts had been too zealous and resulted in more things moving about than warranted. If he was honest, Harry was looking forward to seeing what he could do with battle magic now that he had Malfoy’s bottomless reserve backing him up. His Expelliarmus might very well knock his opponent into the next room, instead of just sending a wand flying.

All of that was well within expectations. But the apparent affect the Bonding had on Malfoy? It was a bit disconcerting, yes, but Merlin’s Beard, was it a relief.

Two days post Bonding, and they were confident it was responsible for Malfoy’s sudden and miraculous interest in living again. 

“I like it,” Malfoy said with the small smile Harry was sure he didn’t realize was gracing his lips. The blond stood at the bottom of the stairs, petting the cashmere sweater where it lay perfectly fitted to his thin waist.

“I’m glad,” Hermione grinned with perhaps a tad more enthusiasm than Malfoy’s approval warranted, “The jeans are a good fit too, aren’t they?”

Malfoy lost his smile as he thumbed the seam of the dark trousers. “I suppose. They’re very… stiff,”

“Denim does that,” Harry agreed, eyeing Malfoy’s new jeans. He agreed with Hermione, they looked and fit well, but also agreed with Malfoy because he looked so uncomfortable in them. Unbidden, the thought occurred to him that Malfoy had looked better _and_ more at ease naked.

“The material will relax the more they’re worn,” Hermione explained, “And you’ll feel more comfortable in them once you’re used to the feel of that kind of fabric,”

It turned out that Malfoy hadn’t been too keen on the idea of leaving Harry’s home. His reasons were valid enough, after all there was nowhere safer than the safe house Harry and Hermione had enchanted themselves, and no one was necessarily eager to test the theory that the Death Eaters, Order and Ministry would lose interest now that the sole Conduit currently in existence was Bonded. That was all perfectly reasonable.

Except that wasn’t the whole of why Malfoy was set on staying in doors.

At the mere suggestion of traipsing Diagon Alley or being around other wizards, Malfoy visibly stiffened and turned morose. It was almost a flip-switch, a sure way to push him back into depression. Hermione supposed it was understandable, that it might hurt him to be surrounded by magic with such a profound understanding that he was forever apart from it.

Which was why Hermione had suggested muggle shopping. Malfoy had at least been willing to try it out, but they had barely made it onto the street before the poor blond was overwhelmed. Apparently, Malfoy was not yet ready to be thrown into the middle of a foreign world whose rules and customs he knew nothing about.

Fortunately, Harry had a healthy appreciation for certain muggle conveniences. Malfoy hadn’t needed much persuasion to learn how to navigate Harry’s lap top, and he and Hermione had spent the better part of the previous evening helping the Conduit shop online while Ron dutifully provided unhelpful commentary and never-ending snacks.

They were all pleased that Draco had eaten a bit of everything put in front of him. Not as much as Ron would like, clearly, but enough to assure them Malfoy wasn’t currently trying to starve himself.

“The shoes we ordered will go well with that outfit,” Hermione continued studying Draco with an please look in her eye. “They should arrive some time tomorrow,”

They were using the Dursley’s old address to receive the muggle packages. Hermione left to collect the first handful of expedited mail just before dinner, and the house was still as empty as it had been since the Order had ushered the Durselys out of town so many years ago.

“Also, I got you this!” Hermione jumped up from her chair and dug a box out of her purse, brandishing it at Malfoy excitedly.

Malfoy really was an entirely different person from the boy they once knew, Harry thought as he watched Malfoy accept the gift with a soft, almost embarrassed smile.

As he got a good look at the label on the box, Malfoy’s smile fell in confusion. “What is a smart phone?”

“It’s sort of like a hand-held computer,” Hermione said breezily, “Muggles carry them around like wizards do their wands. They can do all sorts of things, primarily facilitating communication….,” she hesitated for a moment, shooting Harry a wary glance before continuing. “This will allow you to get in touch with Harry or I if we’re not with you. I already put our contact numbers in—”

This gave Harry pause. Far as he knew, he didn’t have a phone or a phone number.

“—Here, Draco, let me show you—”

Ron took a seat on the arm of Harry’s chair, nudging his head with one freckly elbow as he dropped a sleek black phone into his lap. “You’re welcome,”

Harry picked up the phone dubiously, “Yeah?”

“Yep,” Ron kept his voice low enough Malfoy couldn’t possibly hear them over Hermione’s operating instructions. “You’ll have to get back to work eventually, soldier. He won’t always have someone around to help him, and if anything happens, it’s not like he can send a Patronus or use the floo,”

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry groaned in realization. Of course. Malfoy didn’t have a way to contact him in an emergency. Not until now, anyway.

Ron gave a relaxed shrug. “Figured you hadn’t thought that far yet,”

“Thank you,” he finally said, heartily.

"Don't sweat it. Hermione already put her number in. Draco's too,"

“No!?” Malfoy’s cry drew their attention, and the two wizards watched as the blond stared between Hermione and the phone in disbelief, emphatically insisting: “impossible! This texting, it’s really instantaneous? You don’t have to wait, not even half the time of an owl’s flight?!”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head.

“No, really? Granger? Weasley, she’s having me on, isn’t she?”

Ron and Harry shared an amused look as Ron admitted, “Nope, bloody impressive, right?”

“Alright, fine. Show me how to do that thing—”

Hermione got back to teaching Malfoy about his phone, Harry as torn between gratitude and a profound sorrow. He was lucky—and by extension, so was Malfoy—that Hermione and Ron were helping him out with this, putting all their combined intellect and foresight into making the best of a truly wretched situation. But how unfortunate that all the help was necessary.

Malfoy gripped the phone just a little too tightly, hung on Hermione’s instructions just a little too attentively, and he studied the device with just a little too much focus. He covered it all with a neat veneer of amazement and incredulity, but Harry saw it all the same.

Harry had gifted him a degree of safety the other night. Hermione had just gifted him a means of independence. Together, they had somehow given him hope when he’d arrived, dumped on Harry's couch, with none.

And he was beyond desperate to hold onto it.

“Hey,” Ron said soberly, his eyes fixed on the way Malfoy frowned in concentration as he repeated the steps Hermione had just demonstrated, “If he asks, maybe we should just tell him we’ve had the phones for a while, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed readily.

They didn’t want it to seem like they were making too many special accommodations for Malfoy. They didn’t want him to feel like he was abnormal, or like he was somehow disabled.

Even though he was.


	7. Healing Has to Start Somewhere

It took over a week for Draco to admit the truth to himself and stop masturbating. Sure, it felt good on a purely physical level, but compared to what it had felt like on ALL levels the one and only night he spent in Potter’s bed it was just a bland activity. It was hollow. Dissatisfying. And more often then not, when there was no rush of magic accompanying the orgasm, it ended with him in tears.

His second week living amongst Gryffindors, Draco spent it trying to talk himself into addressing the situation with Potter. But every time they were in a room together, either Granger, a Weasley, or Longbottom of all people was hanging around. Or Potter was still so concerned about his health, and that hardly seemed the time to talk about anything remotely sexual. Or worse, Potter would go on again about maybe it being time Draco stepped outside; once or twice, he even found himself doing just that in a misguided attempt to stumble on a good opportunity to discuss the matter.

Then Potter was leaving him alone in the house for long hours at a time. Draco wasn’t entirely certain what it was he did all day, seeing as the Chosen One was well known as his own entity apart from The Order and The Ministry. He understood that most of Potter’s work was focused on locating dark artefacts—weapons? Information? People, or assets like himself? He wasn’t entirely sure—and curtailing any and all devious plans associated with the Dark Lord and his minions. Potter wasn’t entirely opposed to working with The Order or even certain members of The Ministry, but whatever he was doing, he clearly held no one in higher authority than himself.

So as Potter spent less and less time in the house, Draco figured now just wasn’t the right time, Merlin willing.

He remembered Potter’s comment that first morning, about his bones needing meat on them or some such nonsense, and he endeavored to do just that. During the second week Potter was gone, he ate so much he made himself sick. The Weasley twins had introduced him to the confounding muggle platform called Youtube, and after much trial and error, Draco eventually discovered instruction on how to strengthen and maintain his body without a magical sport like Quidditch to get the job done.

Potter started spending days away at a time, though he always sent Draco a text if he wouldn’t be home any particular night. After the second instance, Molly Weasley started dropping by the house, claiming The Burrow was too quiet and boring with only her at home, and she would unobtrusively set the house to rights with a wave of her wand while they kept one another company. She cooked for him too, tastier and more appreciated fare than anything his old house elves used to serve. Then she started teaching him how to cook, and together when necessary, they poured over Draco’s phone and learned how to do certain bits the muggle way.

Before he knew it, he’d been with Potter over a month.

The sweet tingle of magic from the Bonding had long since faded. Draco was becoming increasingly antsy about trying to recreate the affect, provided Potter was amenable to the idea.

Provided Draco could summon his inner Gryffindor and ask him.

~!~

“Well,” Ron said cheerily as he wiped the black sludge that had leaked from the destroyed goblet onto his hand with a corner of his robe, “That was exciting,”

He dropped the dead Horcrux to the floor, where it fell with a thunk and a decaying gurgle as more black oozed out of it.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at it in disgust. “Perhaps not the exact word I would have used,”

Harry sat up from where he’d landed, flat on his ass a good several meters away, when they’d brought the basilisk fang down on the offending goblet. He was still panting and rubbing the sore spot on his chest, where the original locket horcrux had scarred. “I don’t know, Mione. I think _exciting_ is fairly appropriate. Also _terrifying_ ,”

She pointed at him absently, still staring at the goblet. “That. That’s more like I was thinking,”

“Pft,” Ron rolled his eyes at them, his cheer undaunted. “Whatever, spoilsports. I say it’s still a win, disturbing evil soul slivers and all. It’s cause for celebration, it is, and neither one of you is going to ruin my date with a bottle of Ogden’s best tonight,”

“That’s fair,” Hermione relented. She fished out the prepared bag and began collected the remains, making sure that whatever dark magic residue remained would be properly contained.

Harry brushed the dirt off his backside as he made his way back over to them. “That sounds brilliant, actually. I could use some celebrating,”

“Meet at yours in a few hours?” Ron asked, then as suddenly as it occurred to him: “Blimey! Malfoy! Do you recon Firewiskey would have an effect on him?”

Hermione looked up at them from where she was digging up the forest floor where the black mess had seeped into the soil. “Probably. I mean, it has magical properties, but the alcohol itself is mundane enough. I doubt it’d taste the same to him though,”

“Huh. I wonder if—”

“No,” Harry and Hermione said in unison.

“You are not feeding him Firewiskey as some sort of experiment,” Harry said firmly.

Ron didn’t bother arguing. In the past month, they had all learned that Harry was fiercely protective of Malfoy, complete with a zero-tolerance policy towards snide comments or suggestions, or anyone insulting the blonde within his hearing. He was officially not on speaking terms with Mundungus Fletcher after overhearing him contemplating aloud the disgustingly hyper-sexualized state he thought Harry was probably keeping Malfoy.

“Still,” Hermione said, finally standing as she tied the bag shut, “If he wants to try it, Harry, you should let him. Just because you feel responsible—”

“—I _am_ responsible for him—”

“—legally, and magically, yes, I know. But he’s also an adult and his own person. You don’t have to shield him from everything like he’s a child,”

By this point, they’d had this argument several times. Hermione thought he was being insultingly careful with Malfoy, to the point of being patronizing. Harry thought she was overestimating Malfoy’s readiness to deal with the world. She argued that Malfoy couldn’t adapt and heal without being pushed out of his comfort zone, while he argued that Malfoy deserved to enjoy that comfort zone for as long as necessary.

Ron wisely kept his mouth shut. Usually.

“Maybe you guys could try asking him what he wants, yeah?”

Harry and Hermione stared at him, startled by the interjection as much as by the simple rationality of it.

Ron shrugged. “Just a thought,”

~!~

Potter was home for longer than a single evening, for the first time since returning to “work.”

“Cheers!”

Potter and Weasley tossed back their shots, Granger practically sipping hers in comparison; all three of them set empty glasses on the coffee table at the same time though. Draco hadn’t the slightest idea what they were celebrating, but he had no doubt that they were, indeed, celebrating.

At Weasley’s overly casual offer, Draco had taken a single shot of Firewhiskey. It tasted nothing like how he remembered it, and what use to be a warming, tingly sort of burn now simply hurt. Needless to say, it was his first and last drink of the evening.

“Oh! Draco! Drac-oh!” Granger giggled when he dropped another bag of crisps and a second freshly-made bean dip on the coffee table between her and Potter. She took his face in her palms before he could stand up straight and kissed his cheek. “You wonderful you!”

Weasley, meanwhile, was still cleaning the first serving dish of the last vestiges of bean and cheese. “Did you steal this recipe from my mum, Malfoy? Pretty sure she makes the same one,”

Draco shrugged out of Granger’s grateful grasp. “She gave me her cook book,”

It was a simple enough recipe, hence why Draco had bothered to make more of it once he saw how quickly the Drunken Trio could go through a tray of food. They’d killed off the entire pan of pasta he’d been hoping to butter Potter up with in preparation for the bloody talk he’d been avoiding. Draco hadn’t felt the slightest bit upset though, strangely enough. It was okay that they ate the food he cooked, he discovered, more than okay even.

It wasn’t like Draco was a house elf, it hadn’t been expected of him. It certainly was appreciated though. It made him feel useful.

“He cooks too?!” Granger sounded teasingly impressed. Draco almost thought she was taunting him, but it was Potter she not-so-subtly nudged as she said it. “My, my, Draco. What other new skills have you picked up lately, hm?”

Potter, fetchingly pink-faced from the alcohol, smacked her shoulder gently and gave Draco a tight smile that was, probably, genuine. “Good for you, Malfoy,”

It was somehow unsettling to find all three of them looking at him, like they expected him to do something. Belatedly, and more awkward than he’d ever felt in his life, Draco glanced around the room and shrugged. “It’s been something to do, I suppose,”

“You like cooking?” Weasley asked, with a dumbfounded look that suggested the mere idea didn’t sit right with him.

“…I suppose so,” He frowned back at them, then with more confidence, “Yes,”

“Makes sense,” Weasley nodded, accepting the answer easy as could be. “You always were good at potions, and it’s sort of the same basic skill set, isn’t it?”

“Ronald!” Granger hissed, and Draco noticed she and Potter were both glowering at the red-head. In that moment, they reminded Draco of aggravated parents admonishing an ill-mannered child with a practiced glare. It was rather funny, actually.

Besides, Draco actually agreed with Weasley.

“I said the same thing to Molly just last week,” he admitted.

The way they all gaped at him was strangely satisfying. It was good to know he could still inspire a reaction from his old adversaries without hardly trying.

Then Weasley had to ruin it by saying, “Who even are you?!”

It was clearly a joke. Draco knew that. He did. But all of a sudden his chest felt too tight and everything seemed to slow down as his heart lurched into his throat. Draco blinked, realized they were still staring at him, and before the stinging behind his eyes could turn them noticeably wet, he turned with a shrug.

Not too long ago, his air of cool nonchalance would have been a foolproof shield. Those days were long gone. Just like his magic. His status. His life.

“Ooooh!!!” Granger whined sympathetically.

At the same time, Weasley tried to climb out of his chair in a flailing mess, crying: “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Malfoy, wait!” He heard Potter stumbling around the coffee table.

He didn’t make it out of the room, to the imagined safety of the hallway. Three pairs of arms snatched him up from behind, a little too enthusiastically, and the lot of them went crashing to the floor in the empty space between the living room and the kitchen.

Draco gave an embarrassing squeak as he fell backwards, straight into Potter’s lap.

Well, Potter’s lap, plus Weasley’s right shin. And, apparently, a bit of Granger’s hair, which had also found its way into his mouth. Merlin’s beard, but the stuff was everywhere.

“Uh, Mione!” Potter sputtered, similarly swiping hair out of his face.

Granger gave a short giggle, before remembering what brought on the current situation. Draco had the breath knocked out of him (again) as she squeezed him round the ribs. “We’re sorry, Draco! Don’t cry, okay?”

“Ron, tell him you’re sorry,” Potter insisted.

“I am SO sorry,” Weasley nodded emphatically.

“Well, I’m fine, so—”

Potter put an end to his escape attempt by following Granger’s idea to hold on tight. He felt two firm arms embrace his waist and he felt Granger’s arm get crushed between his back and Potter’s chest.

“We’re all sorry,” Potter sighed in his ear, and the genuine emotion shook him so badly it startled his tears away.

Draco froze in the weird group hug they’d trapped him in, shocked to realized he believed it. He’d have to be dumber than Crabbe to miss the concern and care these people had shown him. And now, when even his own father considered him less than human.

He took a shaky breath, as deep as Granger’s squeezing would allow, and tried to collect himself.

“I know, Potter. Now—Ah!”

He, Potter, and Granger went backwards, flat on the floor, as Weasley launched himself at Draco like an exuberant puppy late to the game.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy! Please don’t cry! I hate when pretty people cry, so no more crying, kay?”

Weasley lifted off of them just enough for Draco to see his earnest, freckly face. Granger and Potter were still holding him, Potter groaning against his nape from his and Weasley’s combined weight. Granger sniffled and nuzzled his and Potter’s shoulders, and they just… held him.

He was trapped on the floor in a bizarre mass of Gryffindor limbs and hopeful sentiment. Draco didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He felt like crying, but it abruptly no longer seemed like the appropriate response. This—them—was all just too ridiculous. He didn’t know what to do.

They were suspended in silence, waiting for Draco’s reaction, for just a moment too long.

Potter gave his middle a tug. “Malfoy?”

Granger lifted her head to see his face while Weasley frowned down at him and asked, “You alright there, mate?”

Draco blinked. Opened his mouth to respond. And laughed.


	8. A Peculiar Calm Before A Storm

“I think we broke him,”

“Ha!”

“Shh!”

Harry couldn’t help chuckling quietly, even as he watched Hermione biting her grinning lips and Ron shoved his face in a couch pillow to muffle his own mirth.

Hermione swatted him with her shirt sleeve, hissing in a mocking attempt at a scolding, “Stop laughing! You’ll wake him up!”

Harry tried to control himself, he really did. In the end, he had to ease Malfoy’s head further down on his thigh, so that his shaking torso didn’t rattle him awake.

Malfoy’s hysterical laughter had turned into an epic case of shared hilarity, until all four of them had sore abdominals and had nearly exhausted themselves. Each time they started to calm, someone would catch someone else’ eye, or Malfoy would gasp some inane comment about their lack of grace and sensibilities, and off they’d go again.

And then—and _then_ —Hermione had gotten the brilliant idea to make a trip to the muggle corner store, so Malfoy could enjoy some good ol’ non-magical inebriation along with them.

Harry thought Ron and Malfoy may have actually bonded over the shared experience of a pack of wine coolers. Apparently, muggles had a far greater variety of alcohol than wizards.

Also, Malfoy was something of a lightweight.

Which explained why Harry woke up on the floor beside the couch at nearly noon, with Malfoy using his stomach as a pillow. Hermione had claimed the couch itself, the first awake as usual, and peered down at him with a teasing smile and a soft “aw!” when she heard him moving. Then Harry had woken Ron up as a means to stop his snoring by launching a couch pillow at his face.

Annoyingly, Ron also found the sight of Harry and Malfoy cuddling to be quite adorable.

“Seriously though,” Ron murmured as he unfolded himself from the chair he’d spent most of the night curled up in, “Next time there’s something to celebrate, we’re going straight to the muggle drink store!”

“Liquor store,” Hermione provided helpfully.

“Whatever,”

As his friends continued back and forth, business as usual, Harry watched Malfoy’s sleeping form. He almost couldn’t believe it. Malfoy had laughed and drank with them. He had cooked and stayed up chatting, and he hadn’t let his magical disadvantage stop him from bickering with Ron over who was better at Wizard’s Chess (a score which would have to be settled latter).

More and more of the old Draco had resurfaced. The wit and excitability, even a hint of the flamboyancy that used to help him entertain his hangers-on in the Great Hall as he acted out whatever parody he’d come up with to embarrass someone else. He was recognizable again, but without the meanness and superiority.

All said and done, last night made Harry realize he rather _liked_ Malfoy.

“He’s not half bad, you know,” Hermione said softly. She remained laying on the couch, her head resting on her folded arms as she regarded the blond.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed as he smoothed a few stray hairs back from Malfoy’s face. The strands were feather-soft and whispered over his fingertips pleasingly, so he did it again.

“Pretty too,” Hermione added, a grin in her voice.

Harry craned his neck so she could see his answering grin. “Too pretty to cry, right?”

“Absolutely,”

“Hey now,” Ron grumbled as he returned from the kitchen with a hangover cure, “I was drunk and distraught,”

 “Of course,” Hermione said teasingly, “Very drunk and distraught and—?”

“—puppy like,” she and Harry said in unison, in the same amazed tone a tipsy Draco had originally used.

Harry caught her eye and they cracked up into chuckles all over again. Despite himself, Ron laughed along with them.

Then there was a soft whimper and it effectively doused their mirth. They all looked down to see Malfoy’s fine brow furrowed as he wiggled uncomfortably. Before he could second guess the instinct, Harry placed his hand on the side of Malfoy’s neck, his thumb and forefinger circling the base with firm, reassuring pressure just above the line of his collar bone.

Malfoy relaxed and pressed into his hand instantly.

It was just so natural to keep his hand there, to keep flexing his palm and gently sooth the sleeping blond. In the privacy of his own mind, he readily acknowledged how badly he wanted to keep touching and petting, to slip his hand down the slight v-neck of his shirt and just _touch_ …

Hermione nudged his shoulder. “You’re taking very good care of him, Harry,”

Somehow, he doubted she’d be so supportive if she knew how badly Harry wanted to use Malfoy’s body like the Conduit was supposedly meant for.

~!~

In hindsight, getting drunk with the former Golden Trio might not have been the best way to get Potter alone for a sensitive chat.

Oh, he got Potter alone, alright. But he was in no condition for any sort of serious conversation or attempted seduction.

After Weasley and Granger took off, Potter spent most of Saturday helping him nurse his hangover. That meant Draco stayed in bed and grumbled, readily holding it against Potter for enjoying the effects of a properly brewed hangover potion instead of suffering along with him. It was about solidarity, maybe about a bit of embarrassment too, if he was honest. But mostly because misery truly did love company.

Potter consistently chose to ignore those comments.

By Saturday night, Draco seemed more or less functional again, and merely had to overcome his humiliation at being nursed like an inept child. It was hardly attractive behavior.

And then there was Sunday.

They were alone in the house, no expectations of visitors, both wonderfully sober and alert. It was the first full day they had together, just the two of them, in weeks. The awkwardness was almost tangible.

Draco made breakfast. They ate in silence. Draco wondered if he should just come out and ask if they could fuck again, then promptly had an internal panic attack at the imagined reaction such a blunt break in the awkward silence would earn.

Potter cleared his throat as he removed his empty plate from the table. “Thanks, Malfoy,”

Draco gave a tight smile in response, suddenly certain the words would choke him if he tried to ask for what he wanted right then. Or worse, Potter would reject him.

Setting the plate in the sink, Potter seemed to stall out, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave the room or not. Like he wasn’t sure if going about his business in his own home was more appropriate than minding Draco. Draco saw those green eyes seek out the exit, then land on him in consternation.

“Did you…,” Potter shrugged. “I don’t know. D’you want to, like, do something, or… something,”

Draco blinked. “… like what?”

Potter shrugged unhelpfully. Then he turned toward the hall with a sigh and said, “Nevermind,”

Feeling uncharacteristically nervous, Draco hopped to his feet and hastened to clear his own dishes. Then he was speaking before he’d had time to even think the idea through, more desperate than tactful as he said, “Did you know your box shows moving pictures?! Not like wizarding photos though. These don’t change freely, and they don’t interact with us—,”

“Are you..,” Potter rubbed at his lower lip in a subconscious attempt to hide his amusement. “You’re talking about the television?”

Draco paused, considering that. “the… television?”

“Yeah,” Potter waved toward the adjoining living room, indicating the giant rectangular slab mounted to the wall across from the couch. “The TV,”

Draco looked at it, frowning. “I thought Granger called it a Netflix?”

Potter chuckled. The sound was ever so slightly too short and rocky to be a real laugh. Deeper and less mocking than anything Draco had ever heard him make back in Hogwarts. Still, it was…. pleasant.

“I know how to operate it, I think,” Draco continued, crossing his arms self consciously. “I could show you…,”

Potter’s chuckling tempered off, though he still looked at Draco with amusement. “I know how to work my TV, Malfoy,”

“Obviously,” Draco rolled his eyes to mask his wince of embarrassment. “I just meant…” He cleared his throat and avoided eye contact. “If you were looking for something to do today—”

“Alright,”

Draco looked up sharply. “… Alright?”

Potter shoved his hands in his pockets and changed his trajectory toward the couch. “Yeah. Did you want to see anything in particular?”

And that was that, apparently.

They spent the afternoon watching movies, since Draco felt the overwhelming need to share his recent discovery that was Netflix. Potter went along with it easily enough, but Draco found him suspiciously tense the entire time. Of course Draco noticed, he could barely track whatever was on screen with the way Potter’s rigid body kept distracting him.

Potter was fond of muggle clothing, obviously, for both Draco and himself. While Draco enjoyed the feel of his new wardrobe well enough, he certainly didn’t compare to Potter. Potter, who was so confident and at ease in t-shirts that barely concealed the defined musculature of his arms, who’s belt buckle was tauntingly well within sight without a robe hiding it. He never wore robes in the house, actually. Like he wasn’t concerned that his immodestly non-robed figure in those fitted jeans might become noticeably tight in the front.

And that aught to have been a legitimate concern. Draco knew what Potter was hiding in those jeans.

Course, that would only be a concern if Potter was attracted to someone often around the house. But currently, the only thing stiff about the man was his posture.

“Alright, Potter?” Draco asked, ten minutes into the latest film.

Potter’s eyes darted over to him for only a moment before resolutely returning to the TV. “I’m fine,”

Draco shifted on his side of the couch. Again. They’d been here for a while, and though Potter seemed content to imitate a statue on his corner of the sofa, Draco couldn’t seem to go fifteen minutes without repositioning himself. The couch was perfectly comfortable. The weird atmosphere, ambiance, whatever it was, between them though… Draco was caught between feeling he was at fault, for waiting too long to address things between them, and frustration because it _still wasn’t the right time_.

He was beginning to think it never would be.

Draco looked over at Potter while the other man continued watching the film unawares. Potter was handsome. And Draco didn’t hate him, in fact, Draco was honest enough he could admit he even liked him. And Potter was strong. Physically. Magically. Draco knew he would feel good. In every way. The right way. Magically.

And physically.

For the first time in weeks, since the last time Draco had tried to get himself off despite the complete absence of magical sensation, Draco felt his cock twitch to life.

Maybe he was the one making things awkward. Maybe he could just… not be awkward.

With enough bravado to put any Gryffindor to shame, Draco twisted around and crawled across the couch till he was directly next to Potter. Their shoulders and side of their thighs pressed together. Draco thought maybe he heard Potter take a sharp breath.

Immediately, Draco knew he’d miscalculated. He opened his mouth to make up an excuse, maybe something about the other couch cushion becoming uncomfortable, but his words cut off with a startled, near-silent gasp as Potter’s sudden movement rocked him.

Potter, finally moving, lifted his arm over Draco’s head and tugged him into his side. Potter’s legs shifted a little, and just like that, the stiffness seemed to leach away. “Go on, get comfortable,”

Draco turned to him, but Potter was focused back on the TV screen. It didn’t stop Draco from staring. Potter was just so composed and relaxed, as if cuddling with Draco— an ex-Death Eater, his former rival, a Conduit, an inept freak—was no big deal. Somehow, it wasn’t till that moment that Draco truly appreciated that Potter never cared about any of it.

Potter didn’t see him as a magical tool or a creature. He didn’t think he was evil. Probably never had.

Harry Potter was the only truly decent person prominently featured in Draco’s life. The realization was startling.

As he relaxed into the welcoming warmth of Potter’s body, he was well and fully distracted from his prominent goal of getting them back into bed.

~!~

The impromptu movie-marathon was an unexpectedly lazy way to end the weekend. Not that Harry was complaining. He’d greatly enjoyed “celebrating” with Ron and Hermione and (wonder of wonders) Malfoy. It had been surprisingly satisfying and amusing to take care of poor, mopey Malfoy the following day as well. Turns out the blond was absolutely adorable when he was feeling petulant, not that Harry would ever tell him.

Then Malfoy had been damn near sweet when he’d blundered his way to getting them in front of the telly together. That was where they ended up lazing away the rest of the day, which was something Harry was never particularly keen on ordinarily. Strangely though, he barely noticed the hours flying by, not when he spent most of it unobtrusively noticing the light gleaming off Malfoy’s hair, or the limber way Malfoy kept rearranging his limbs.

It was sort of the perfect weekend.

Even if he had to keep telling himself he would not, in any way, put himself in the position to explain the phrase “Netflix and chill.”

He repeated that in his mind when Malfoy sidled up to him.

He screamed it to himself when Malfoy slumped against him with a sigh and that fair head of hair rested on his shoulder.

And then Harry had vanished the remains of their dinner from the coffee table, and when he sat back in his seat Malfoy didn’t return to his place under Harry’s arm and against Harry’s chest. No. He laid down. With his head on Harry’s thigh.

“Shit,” Harry cussed himself out. Aloud.

“Hm?” Malfoy hummed questioningly even as he nuzzled Harry’s thigh, grey eyes drooping as they gazed at the TV.

“Nothing,” Harry said gently even as he watched his own hand drop down onto Malfoy’s shoulder. He was pleased to find there was a good deal of substance beneath the blond’s sweater, further evidence that he was healing and getting healthier.

He was most pleased that Malfoy didn’t shrug off his touch though.

He stared down at the smooth curve of Malfoy’s fine cheek and slowly started rubbing his hand up and down Malfoy’s slender arm. He was going to hell, he told himself. Even as he kept touching, thinking about how he was going to give in to this selfish lust and hating himself for it, he knew it was inevitable.

There was nothing stopping him from just _taking_ Malfoy. In any and every way he fancied, and he fancied a lot.  The only thing that would even try to stop him would be himself, and he was starting to understand that this time, that wasn’t going to cut it.

He knew, he just didn’t care.


	9. Things Get Worse Before They Get Better

Draco was more comfortable with Potter after that weekend.

It was more than the physical attraction, though that was certainly there. It was more than his desire to feel his magic come alive again, though that was definitely a factor. It was more than gratitude, for the clothes on his back and the safe haven from the Death Eaters and the Ministry and the world at large.

The epiphany Draco had been struck by about Potter went deeper than that. It gave him a sense of safety and trust that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He couldn’t trust his own family the way he could trust Harry Potter. Not with anything: his life, his magic, probably even his heart.

He had never been in love. Infatuated, yes, but not in love. Ever since that moment, cuddling on the couch watching TV on the Netflix, Draco found he believed he was capable of it. With Potter. If he could ever fall in love with anyone, he could fall in love with Potter.

It should have been terrifying, and perhaps it was, but it was also amazingly freeing.

They were already Bound together for life, as Master and Conduit. Draco could love Potter all he wanted, and even if Potter never loved him back Draco would never really lose him. Potter was simply too good a person to abandon Draco, even if their emotional connection turned out unbalanced.

Draco could live with that. He’d certainly survived worse.

Living without magic was worse. And his unease-turned-infatuation with Potter could only distract him for so long.

~!~

Harry hadn’t been so uncomfortable in his life.

Fighting for his life was more familiar and manageable than fighting the growing urge to throw Malfoy down on the nearest available surface and ravage him. It had been strong enough that he recognized the inevitability of it that Sunday they spent curled up on the couch, but it wasn’t until several days latter that it became unsettling.

By Thursday morning, Harry noticed his spell work was entirely back to regular, pre-Bonding strength. It had been for a while, of course. The effects of a one-time romp with a Conduit wouldn’t last forever. The extra, electric thrum of magic on the edge of his awareness had faded into the background over the previous weeks, far enough that it eventually disappeared all together almost without Harry’s notice.

Well. Harry noticed now.

The realization that Malfoy’s magic had run its course was benign enough. It was the achy longing the realization brought that was disconcerting. Like he’d suddenly realized he’d gone weeks without chocolate, only to be set upon by viciously vengeful cravings for the stuff.

He didn’t just want Draco Malfoy. He wanted his Conduit.

That was a problem.

By that same evening, the desire to feel the wild magic blossom to life in the back of his mind was nearly as strong as his physical lust. It was like he’d had his first taste of a potent drug and the high had only just fully vanished from his system, leaving him suddenly anxious for more.

And it’s not like he shouldn’t have more. Malfoy was his, after all.

That sort of thinking had him avoiding home till late in the evening, well past the time when he should have texted Malfoy to say he wasn’t coming back for the night. Except he did come back. He made it all the way to the door, then he turned around on his own doorstep and apparated straight to Ron and Hermione’s with uncharacteristic cowardice.

“We missed something in the fine print,” Harry grumbled instead of a greeting as he stomped through their front door.

Ron froze in the middle of the apartment, halfway between the shower and the bedroom with a towel still round his waist. “Uh, hi…,” he said slowly, taking in Harry’s aggravated state, “What’s up, mate?”

Harry flopped onto their futon with a whine: “Malfoy,”

“What about Draco?” Hermione popped out of nowhere, a frown creasing her brow.

He glared at her as he slumped further into his chosen seat. “Remember how you likened a Conduit’s need for magic via sex to an addiction?”

“… yes?”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one, I think,” Harry ran his hands through his hair frustratedly as he continued, “It’s like an itch under my skin. It was vaguely annoying this morning, I could ignore it, but I got home and I knew, I just _knew_ I was close to him, and I swear I was going to bloody jump him,”

“I need clothes for this conversation,” Ron mumbled to himself as he hurried to the bedroom.

Hermione sat down next to Harry and took his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with being powerfully attracted—”

“No!” Harry cringed, shaking his head at her. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the magic, Mione. I want it. I mean… I _really_ want it,”

Hermione’s mouth opened in a distinct ‘O’ as comprehension dawned on her face. The expression swiftly melted into sympathy though. “Harry, that’s not…. It’s understandable. You’re probably picking up on Draco’s own frustration and desire through the Bond,”

Harry shook his head in the negative. “No. This is all me. Malfoy’s only _just_ gotten comfortable letting me give him a hug, for Merlin’s sake, Hermione. No way he’s—this isn’t his… _desire_ ,”

She sighed. “Maybe not the specifics, you have your own preferences that are bound to be at least a little different from his. But Harry, the magic you get from him can only exist between you. _Both of you_. The Conduit is the one who craves it, and as his Bonded Master, it’s only natural that you would get an echo of his need for it—”

At that, Harry sat up with a jolt. “Merlin! An _echo_?! You think this is just a bloody _echo_ of something he’s feeling?!”

It was a horrifying thought. Not only because Harry couldn’t imagine such an obsessive need being even more powerful than it had been for the past day. No. Harry didn’t want to believe Malfoy was in such a desperate state without his even noticing. Had Harry been deluding himself into thinking he had a decent read on the blond? Had Harry been so out of touch with reality that he had actually missed Malfoy going through this?

Hermione placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back before he could stand up. “Calm down,”

Impossible. Best case scenario, he was a giant perv whose lust was now confused with the questionable magical connection to his charge. Or worst, maybe he was just that inept for the role Malfoy now required him to fill.

Either way, Malfoy was the one with the shit end of the stick.

“It’ll be alright,” Hermione soothed, rubbing his arm, “We’ll figure it out,”

“And by _we_ ,” Ron said as he dropped onto the futon beside his friend, clothed but still towel-drying his damp hair, “she means you and Malfoy. He’s the one you should be talking to about this,”

Harry and Hermione turned to the redhead with near identical looks of bemusement.

Ron stretched his arms out on the back of the futon unconcernedly. “What?”

“When the hell did you get so smart?” Hermione mused, something suspiciously close to stars in her eyes.

Harry kicked her shin lightly. “You’ve been rubbing off on him,”

Ron grinned sleazily.

“Don’t--!”

“Diggity!”

As Hermione thwacked Ron with his towel, Harry chortled and moved out of range. He could always trust Ron to lighten the mood when he needed it.

He ignored how eerily close his friend’s words sounded like relationship advice. Of the romantic kind.

~!~

Potter was annoyingly busy the entire week, Draco barely saw him for longer than a few moments in the evening. It was beyond annoying, actually. It was aggravating. Maddening. Frustrating. And then it was just plain depressing.

By Thursday, Draco didn’t have the energy to spare to even climb out of bed. He just wanted to lay there and sob into his pillow like a forlorn child. Maybe if he cried hard enough, he’d feel less bothered by the way Potter had seemingly abandoned him.

Except he never did get around to crying.

“Merlin’s sagging balls,” he huffed, staring up at his bedroom ceiling aimlessly.

His stomach ached, woefully empty despite the fully stocked kitchen downstairs. If he bothered to lift the blanket, he was sure he’d wrinkle his nose from his own stench from not showering in close to two days. He didn’t see the point in wasting the energy for it. Potter wasn’t even around to be bothered by it.

He hadn’t felt so dejected since the night Potter Bonded him. No, not dejected. Or not just that. More like…  bereft. It was like mourning his magic all over again, only tinged with the ache of Potter’s absence in a way that made it altogether nastier. He wondered if there was heartbreak involved, if this was what it felt like, but the persistent need for his magic in the back of his mind and deep under his skin made him doubt it.

 _Failure to thrive_ , Granger had called it.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, wishing he could cry. Maybe Granger was right. She usually was.

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark. The clock on his bedside table read 10 PM. He sighed and rolled over, burying his head in his pillow and ignoring the sickening twist in his gut.

The next time he woke up, the gray light of sunrise greeted him along with a distant awareness that his bladder was close to full, despite the distinct lack of drinking he’d done all the previous day. It was a minor thing compared to the wretched hollowness that made him feel starved for magic and more than a simple hug or passing touch from Potter. Draco whined to himself and pulled the blankets over his head, forcing himself back to sleep.

When he finally woke on Friday morning, it was to bright sunshine and Potter’s fetching face as the wizard peeled the blanket off him.

“C’mon,” Potter whispered with a frown as he shook Draco’s shoulder gently, “Wake up, Draco,”

Draco mewled, still half asleep and groggy as he craned his neck to nuzzle his face against Potter’s wrist. His hands unclenched from the blanket so he could latch onto Potter’s forearm and hug the other man close.

“Shit,” Potter sighed sadly. Draco felt Potter’s other hand pet through his hair then, his fingers firm and warm against his scalp. “I’m sorry, Draco. I’m so sorry,”

Draco hummed, blinking his eyes open and squinted up at Potter. He didn’t like the helplessness painting across Potter’s face. Potter was supposed to be confident and capable, at the very least full of enough bravado and stubbornness to fake it. The Chosen One wasn’t supposed to be helpless.

He wasn’t helpless, though. He had Draco, and Draco could make him powerful like nothing and no one else. Draco realized it with a sudden complete conviction that only happened in nonsensical dreams. Perhaps he was still asleep.

Pushing up on his elbow, Draco tried to wiggle his way into Potter’s lap, grabbing at him with drowsy determination.

“No, no, Draco,” Potter caught his wrists and tugged Draco into an upright position. “Come on. Wake up properly. We need to get you taken care of, then we can talk, alright? Sound good?”

Draco rubbed the sleep from his eye and slowly felt his brain catch up with the conversation.

“Draco?” Potter asked softly, crouching on the floor at Draco’s feet, warm hands on the blond’s knees as he peered up at him concernedly, “You with me yet?”

Draco cocked his head to the side, frowning down at Potter’s earnestness. “… You’re calling me Draco, now?”

Potter shrugged, “Yeah,”

Slumping exhaustedly, Draco’s head bobbed in a careless nod. “Okay,”

A soft huff of laughter escaped Potter before being swiftly bitten off.

Draco didn’t fully wake up until Potter had ushered him into the bathroom, a towel and fresh clothing bundled into his arms. By the time he made it out of the shower Potter had clearly swept his room with a few housekeeping charms, opening his window and the curtains to let in the air. The caregiving was simultaneously touching and disheartening.

At the very least it motivated Draco to make it downstairs, where he found Potter making tea and a full breakfast spread on the table.

“Thanks,” Draco murmured as he picked at a pile of perfectly fluffy, cheesy eggs Potter ladled onto his plate.

Potter hummed nonchalantly, frowning at Draco with consideration as he sipped at his tea.

Twirling his fork through the food, Draco tried to ignore Potter’s staring. It made him uncomfortable, which made no sense considering how desperate he still felt for any kind of attention from the other man. And really, wasn’t that just old hat for Draco; it was Hogwarts all over again, only this time Draco’s condition brought the sexual tension of it all straight to the forefront.

Potter definitely wasn’t looking at him like he wanted to fuck him, though.

“Eat, Draco,” he reminded, firm and kind.

He managed to get the fork halfway to his mouth before he shot a glance at Potter and asked, “You mentioned talking?”

“Eat first,” Potter dragged a hand through his hair, looking away from Draco as he sighed.

Well then. There wasn’t really anything else to do, and Potter seemed rather busy with his own thoughts at the moment. Draco ate. It tasted like dust and felt like cardboard, but Draco ate. He didn’t expect to eat much—he had no appetite, really—yet by the time Potter finished his tea and cleaning up from cooking, Draco had somehow cleared his plate.  

He made to stand and carry his place setting to the sink, but Potter’s hand on his shoulder kept him seated. Potter sat next to him, still gripping his shoulder. Draco shivered as the fingers rubbed into him in a minuscule, subconscious massage.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much this week…,” Potter said with more earnestness than Draco thought warranted, especially as he continued with utmost uncertainty, “And I think… well… I think you maybe needed me here. Maybe. I don’t know. Just… Draco, is there anything you need to talk to me about?”

Draco froze. He didn’t know how to respond. What did he need to talk to Potter about? Sex? Magic? His burgeoning crush? Through his shocked stillness, he became uncomfortably glade Potter had made him shower and dress before insisting they talk. He just wished he hadn’t made him eat; Draco’s stomach rolled threateningly with nerves.

Potter’s face flushed the barest hint of pink as he looked away and he released Draco’s shoulder in favor of folding his hands together in his own lap. Potter cleared his throat. “Is there anything…. I just mean to say, if there is, you can tell me. We’re Bonded and we… I’m responsible for you, and if you’re not, y’know, getting what you need…”

Draco felt his eyes go wide as he realized what Potter was saying. Potter had figured out that Draco wanted to sleep with him, and the noble sod was willing to do it. Despite not being attracted to Draco, but because it was his bloody responsibility.

Draco had never felt more pathetic.

“I’m fine,” he blurted out dumbly.

Those green eyes snapped to his with a sternness that startled Draco. “No. You’re not,”

Now it was Draco who couldn’t meet the other’s gaze. “It’s fine, Potter. I’ll deal,”

Potter blinked, amazed. “You… Draco, what exactly do you think you did yesterday? Were you _dealing_ when you decided to forgo showering or feeding yourself? Did you even bother to get up to piss, or did you just ignore that basic necessity as well? Draco, you’re not even functioning!”

Face burning with shame and embarrassment and fathomless anger, Draco jumped to his feet so fast his chair toppled over. He glared at Potter and snarled with none of the cool finesse of his usual rebuttals: “You should have thought of that before!”

Potter gaped at him, nonplussed. “I… _what!_?”

“ _What_!?” Draco mocked, sounding more like his old self if it weren’t for all the hurt in his voice. “Did you think you’d just step in like the bloody savior you are and everything would be sunshine and bloody rainbows!? So I’m not the Ministry’s whore! Great! Good job, Potter. You saved me. You’re done—”

“The hell, Malfoy?”

Draco screamed over the interruption. “I don’t want your pity and I don’t want you being fucking _responsible_ for me!”

This seemed to snap Potter out of his surprise and straight into anger. He stood, fists clenched and spoke so forcefully that it didn’t matter he hadn’t raised his voice, “I _am_ responsible for you. Like it or not,”

“Definitely not!” Draco snarled, appallingly childish as it was, and turned to stomp out of the room.

Potter followed him, biting back, “Too bad. Maybe _you_ should have thought of that before,”

Thoughtlessly, Draco spun on his heel, raising his hand as he went, till he slapped Potter so hard it snapped his head to the side. Only when Potter stared him in dismayed shock, his cheek bruised red, did Draco realize furious tears had begun collecting in his eyes.

Potter reached for him, voice softening, “Draco—”

Draco shied away from the touch and ran. He didn’t quiet make it to his room before the first wracking sobs cracked him open, but at least he got inside and closed the door before Potter caught up to him. He felt the door shake against his back as Potter tugged at the handle, calling his name and apologizing. The sound of his own tears soon drowned Potter out though, and Draco crumbled to the floor in a miserable heap.

He had been so sure he could live in Potter’s house, live with Potter, beside Potter, and get by on his one-sided love affair and the occasional rush of magic when he might convince Potter to bed him. He hadn’t anticipated Potter’s lack of interest to hurt so much.

He was wrong. He couldn’t live like that.


	10. Eventually, Something Has To Give

Harry wasted a few hours pacing outside Draco’s door, debating with himself. At each turn, Harry’s mind raced between grudging acceptance that he’d have to just give the Conduit space and time so they could talk properly, and furious indignation for being so completely misunderstood and blindsided.

And of course, there were frequent moments of gut-quacking concern that tempted him to break down the damn door.

In the end, Harry shot Hermione a Patronus to let her know he needed a few days to deal with the Conduit situation. Then he conjured up a chair and summoned one of the monstrously old tombs on Conduits and set up camp. He would wait Draco out and they would talk. So help him, Merlin.

Except he may have underestimate Draco Malfoy’s stubbornness.

Two o’clock in the afternoon rolled around, without so much as a creak sounding from within the bedroom. Draco hadn’t come out to use the loo and grab food or water. This was getting ridiculous.

Harry slumped in his chair and kicked the door pointedly, hoping to at least startle Malfoy into action.

No response.

Harry stood and knocked more genially, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice as he called, “Draco? Come on, let’s get some lunch,”

No answer.

He pressed his forehead against the door with a sigh, his voice going a little sterner, “Draco,”

Silence.

Harry cracked his knuckles on the door. “You’re being childish. Come on, Malfoy. Food. Now. Let’s go,”

Nothing.

“Merlin’s sagging bollocks,” Harry huffed, his aggravation once again fading to anxiousness. He shook the door handle pointedly and called, “Draco, just let me know you’re alive in there, yeah?”

He fell still, practically held his breath as he waited for a reply. It didn’t come.

For probably the dozenth time, Harry’s wand slipped free of his sleeve, clasped tight and ready in his hand. It wasn’t like the metal lock was impervious to charms, and Malfoy certainly couldn’t ward him from the room. Hell, he wasn’t even fit enough to physically bar Harry from coming in.

But like every other time, Harry hesitated with the innate understanding of how wrong that would be.

And yet… Draco wasn’t well. Regardless of the disastrous turn of their latest conversation, Harry knew that much, without doubt. At what point did his responsibility, not only as Master but as a decent, concerned human being, trump Draco’s right to privacy and his own, adult decisions?

He pushed down the sinking feeling in his gut till the pressure turned it to diamond-hard resolve. Then he set the tip of his wand against the door handle and raised his voice in warning: “I’m coming in, Draco. Alohamora,”

He half expected the blond to strike at him again, but the door swung open with zero fanfare and a complete silence that was disheartening. Malfoy was back in bed, well… on it. He’d flopped down on top of the freshly made-up bedspread and curled up on his side. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep, not with the tense, stubborn scowl on his fair face.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hey…,”

Draco’s shoulder’s hunched and his scowling face turned into the bedding with an angry, wordless groan.

Not for the first time, Harry found Draco reminded him of a peeved, feral kitten. He wisely kept the thought to himself.

“Draco—” he began softly, setting his hand on the Conduit’s arm.

The blond came alive at the barest touch. He sprang upright, spine rigidly pressed to the headboard and as far from Harry as he could get, considering their positions on the bed. The force of his haughty glare was almost enough to distract Harry from the obvious tear tracks smudged on his pale cheeks.

Almost.

What lingered of Harry’s anger and frustration vanished beneath mounting concern. He didn’t reach for him again—he didn’t want to infringe on a boundary Draco was being so very clear on—but he wanted to. Desperately.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said lamely, “I don’t exactly know what happened down there, but I’m not trying to hurt you, Draco,”

If he had expected the apology to help, he was sorely mistaken. Those big grey eyes gleamed with fresh tears and for a moment Draco’s glower waivered with uncertainty and emotions too complex to be deciphered. It was the exact opposite of the dead-eyed thing Malfoy had been when WIC brought him here, as if everything he’d avoided feeling back then had immediately caught up to him now that Harry’s careless words had somehow broken his tenuously rebuilt humanity.

Harry knew then, without doubt, that he had doomed them when he agreed to Bind them together. Malfoy was still as damaged as he had been that first day; he needed more than what he’d been given. And Harry wasn’t equipped to give the help he needed.

“Why…,” Draco’s voice croaked and he had to clear his throat, blinking tears away rapidly. He avoided meeting Harry’s eyes when he tried again, “Why did you Bond with me when you’re not even attracted to me?”

Harry blinked. That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting to be asked, by any stretch of imagination.

Before Harry could stop gawking stupidly, Draco rubbed at his face fitfully and gave a weak, mirthlessly laugh. “Merlin, Potter, do you even like men?”

“ _That’s_ what all this—you, I mean…,” Harry shook himself, murmuring, “I am so confused right now,”

Draco scoffed and made to climbed off the bed To run away. “Forget it,”

“No way!” Harry caught his arm and gently tossed him back against the headboard. He stared at him incredulously. “Blimey, just… What on earth made you think I wasn’t attracted to you?”

For a moment, Draco looked gob smacked. It was the closest to fumbling mad Harry had ever seen him. “You needed a bloody aphrodisiac potion to get the job done in the first place!”

Harry blushed, “How did you—”

“I nearly tripped over the bottle the next morning. I may not be able to brew anymore, but I recognize potion residues just fine, thanks,” The sullenness, and perhaps the reminder of his intelligence, helped Malfoy vanquish the remaining hints of tears with a few discreet sniffs. Harry was glad to see him regain his composure, even if he could have done without the attitude.

If anything, Harry’s blush deepened. It was his turn to avoid eye contact. “Yeah, well… it wasn’t because of you,”

Draco gave a disbelieving huff. “Oh? You regularly need illicit substances to get it up, Potter?”

“Merlin! No!” Harry ran his hands through his hair in aggravation. He took a deep breath and willed himself to stay calm and explain clearly, “I _am_ attracted to you, Malfoy. The potion had nothing to do with a distaste for you and everything to do with my distaste for the whole blasted situation,”

“You shouldn’t have Bonded with me if it’s so disagreeable—”

“Don’t do that,”

“Don’t do...?”

“That. Twisting my words to mean something else than what I mean,”

“Well, what the hell _do_ you mean? Go on then Potter, speak plainly so we can all move on with our miserable lives,”

Harry stood abruptly, fists clenched. “You insufferable twat!”

“Too bad,” Draco mocked, curling up into an angry, defensive ball on the far corner of his bed, “we’re Bound, idiot, so you don’t have a choice but to _suffer_ me,”

Harry laughed coldly. “Fine. Fine. You want me to speak plainly, Malfoy? How about this,”

Draco squawked in alarm as Harry leaned over him, one hand braced on the bed and the other a tight fist pressed to the wall by Draco’s head. Harry got in his face, their noses nearly touching and their locked gazes unavoidable and painfully close as he boxed the blond in.

“I would love nothing more than to fuck you open every bloody night if I knew you wanted me. I’d want you in my bed even if you weren’t my Conduit. But you are, and I have no misunderstandings about the fact that that’s probably the only reason you want me at all. The thing is,”

Draco took a sharp breath as Harry lifted the hand from the bed to grip his fine, aristocratic jaw. Harry could hear the selfish, dark note of hunger in his own voice, and for once he didn’t care to hide it.

“I don’t care about that nearly as much as I should. I’m not that good a person after all. I’ll take you any way you’ll let me, and I’ll enjoy every bleeding second of it,”

~!~

Draco was ready for a fight. The moment Potter barged into his room, he’d been ready for the confrontation, in whatever nasty method it was had, be it scathing words or fisticuffs. He hadn’t even considered that Potter would lose his cool enough to use magic on him, but in hindsight… that seemed more likely than the actual reality of what happened next.

Potter’s fingers held his face with bruising strength that matched the intensity in their locked stares. The wizard loomed over him like a giant, their relative size difference, the imbalance of their magic and everything else, viscerally apparent.

Draco had never been more turned on in his life.

Potter had never been more impressive. He was strong and powerful, and Draco knew with every fiber of his being, with every ounce of magic he couldn’t even consciously feel within his depths, that he could make him even more so. He wanted to do it. He wanted to feed into Potter’s strength and get caught up and lost in the resulting storm.

His Master was a worthy one, and Draco was going to help him do incredible things.

The tension from prolonged anger, disappointment and hopelessness drained from his body, and his insides warmed and loosened with alarming swiftness. He went completely lax under Potter’s undeniable control. Draco whimpered.

Potter released him and jumped away like he’d been burned. “The fuck am I doing…”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. All he knew was loss. Potter had been so close, then he pulled away and it was like Draco was dying of thirst only to have a jug of water dangling just out of reach. Constantly _just_ out of reach.  Taunting him.

It was maddening.

That was his only explanation for what happened next. He’d gone mad. Completely lost his mind.

Potter still had his hands fisted in his hair, staring at the ceiling in exasperation, when Draco launched himself at him. He shot straight into Potter’s chest, sending the wizard tumbling backwards with a startled cry till his back collided with the bureau on the far wall. While Potter was struck dumb by the shock, Draco grabbed for him with a desperation he’d been diligently ignoring for weeks.

He’d like to say he took Potter at his word, that he wanted him, but the truth was Draco didn’t even consider it. He didn’t think. He just went with the instincts screaming through his body with a temper that had finally boiled over.

He kissed him. Well. It was less of a kiss and more like he tried to smother Potter with his mouth, it was so overzealous, but that wasn’t the point. The taste of his Master—magic and spices and honeyed tea and _magic_ —slid over his tongue and Draco moaned as he drank it down with greedy lips and tongue. He plastered himself to Potter’s body and inwardly rejoiced at the undeniably hard bulge he could feel through the man’s trousers.

Merlin and Morgana, but he wanted Potter. He wanted him and he was going to have him.

The kiss broke with gasps on both sides and Potter stared at him. “Blimey, Malfoy!?”

No. Draco was done talking themselves into further confusion and frustration. There was nothing confusing about what their bodies wanted.

Draco dove to reignite the kiss, but Potter turned his cheek, sounding breathless as he tried again, “Wait, we should talk—”

But Draco noticed the hands on his hips were squeezing tight, not pushing him away. He rubbed his face on Potter’s, enjoying the sting of Potter’s stubble on his lips.

“Draco, wait—”

Draco was done waiting. He reached down and boldly cupped Potter between the legs.

Potter’s squeaked and his knees nearly gave out.

Draco’s fingers did a little roaming and he groaned appreciatively. Potter was going to feel so good. He already felt good, and he was going to feel even better once Draco got their clothes off. His other hand attacked Potter’s belt buckle even as he kept massaging.

“Fuck,” There was a thump as Potter’s head fell back against the wall in defeat. “Okay, just…Fu—ah! Dammit all,”

A thrill shot up Draco’s spine as Potter hoisted him up, big hands on his ass and under one thigh. Draco had to stop groping, but it was a small price to pay to get his legs wrapped tight around Potter’s waist. A touch of giddiness flavored his desperation as Potter carried him to the bed in three quick strides—his Master wasn’t just a strong magician, he was _strong_. The manhandling sent a devastating shiver of arousal through him that had absolutely nothing to do with the magic’s siren call.

They hit the bed with a bounce that knocked the breath from his lungs.

On his back, Draco watched Potter rear back to stare at him with impossibly dark eyes. Draco tightened his thighs around Potter’s waist reflexively, unwilling to let him pull further way, so they were oh-so-up-close-and-personal when Potter pulled his jumper over his head.

“Merlin,” Draco whispered as he saw his bedmate’s body for the first time.

Potter hadn’t removed his shirt the one and only previous encounter, and Draco somewhat regretted not trying to get a better feel of the body in front of him in the past few weeks. What used to be a skinny, borderline malnourished boy had clearly developed into a virile and capable man. Potter had the slabs of muscle that Draco expected to see on dragon tamers and professional Beaters. For the love of Morgana, what had Potter been up to since Hogwarts? Most Aurors didn’t tend to use their bodies hard and consistent enough to achieve that kind of definition.

Oh. But Draco hoped Potter was going to use that body alright. Or rather, let Draco. Draco planned to use it. Hard.

The raw sexuality of his thoughts was shocking. Draco had never harbored such lasciviousness before. Potter was right. There must be something wrong with him.  

“Later,” Draco whispered to himself. He pushed the concerns to the back of his mind as he reached for Potter. Right now, it was far more important that he get his hands all over the other man.

“What’s that?” Potter asked distractedly as he braced above him.

“Nothing,” Draco splayed one hand over those impressive abs and grabbed a fist of messy black hair with the other. He tugged Potter down into another kiss.

This time, Potter’s was ready for it, wasn’t shocked nearly motionless. He participated fully, and Draco was only too happy to get swept away in the rush.


	11. It's Good, But It's... Complicated

Everything changed after that.

Apparently, while Draco slept Potter decided they had talked as much as they needed to. And Draco supposed it was true. They had been explosively upfront about how they felt about their peculiar relationship, and when the dust had settled what remained was unrecognizable.

Everything was different. Like a heavy burden had been miraculously lifted from his shoulders, Draco was different.

 _They_ were different now.

And Draco _loved it_.

Potter stopped pretending he didn’t want to pin Draco to every available surface, and Draco stopped hiding how desperately he wanted to be pinned down. The thrum of his magic was a constant, happy buzz in all corners of his mind and spirit and body, and Draco didn’t give it a chance to fade before he jumped back into Potter’s bed to keep it going.

At least, he assumed repeated, frequent intercourse was keeping it going. Unlike the weeks after their Bonding, Draco never felt the absence weigh on him, urging him to get close to Potter despite whatever  thoughts he might have on the matter. Rather, it was the reverse; Draco was no longer consumed with desperate, despondent _need_ for Potter’s physical attentions, but he was quickly becoming obsessed with _wanting_ Potter. The magic didn’t just linger from one encounter to the next, it thrived and sustained him plenty enough that Draco could think clearly about what, _exactly what_ , he wanted.

And when. Which was all the time.

“Merlin’s saggy ball sack!” Weasley cried, covering his eyes as he stepped out of the floo.

Granger came through behind him and took only the briefest glance around his bulk before turning her stare to the ceiling and sighing, “Harry, this is not what I meant when I said I was glad you guys were resolving the sexual tension,”

Potter gave a short, strained laugh, and his fingers tightened in Draco’s hair enough to make it clear Draco should stop, but not actually enough to _make_ him stop.  He’d only had a passably frequent sex life for a week, and Draco was determined to beat his gag reflex into submission. Potter was just along for the ride.

Distantly, he was aware of broken, clipped words being said over his head, literally and figuratively. A moment later, he heard the floo roar back to life and Weasley and Granger were gone.

Potter’s fingers relaxed in his hair and Draco felt him slump back into the couch with a loud groan.

“You…” Potter whined amorously at him, “I had—ugh!”

Draco liked the way Potter sounded like he’d been punched in the gut each and every time he rolled his tongue over his cockhead just so. It was far preferable to being reminded Potter was supposed to leave for a few days again. So Draco did it again.

“S-stop that,” Potter griped pointlessly, his hips jerking into Draco’s mouth reflexively, “I have plans, Draco,”

Draco did the tongue thing again. And again. And again.

“Fuuuck!”

Potter’s left leg kicked and the salty tang of precum hit Draco’s tongue. Smirking around his mouthful, Draco sank down as far as he could and sucked hard.

“Yeah, yeah, that. Do that,”

Draco did. He held onto the powerful thighs on either side of his head and swallowed like his life depended on it. So help him, if Potter was going to take off for days on end just as things were getting good, then he was going to come hard for Draco first.

“Like that, like that, just like that,” the words left Potter in a desperate, mindless rush. Potter, as it turned out, was a bit of a talker in the heat of the moment. “Fuck, Draco! So good, soooo good for me,”

Draco would have preened if he wasn’t so busy. He rather liked how vocal Potter got. It did wonders for Draco’s self-image.

“Ah-ah! Fuuuck!”

As Potter’s entire body went taut, Draco tried to will his throat open and pushed down. He gagged, Potter gasped and jerked, and on the next gag Draco felt his throat give up the fight and relax so he could finally sink down those final few inches. Then he swallowed.

Potter came so deep and hard, Draco didn’t get to taste it.  

Immediately, the magic bubbled inside him, bursting to life strongly, over and over and over again, as if it were celebrating. Draco felt his own eyes roll into the back of his head as the power surged through him. It wasn’t orgasmic, not exactly, but it was close, wonderful and sometimes even better than orgasm in its own special way.

It wasn’t always that strong. In fact, the magic hadn’t come on so forcefully since the first time they had slept together, when it had knocked him out immediately after Bonding. Draco wasn’t unconscious now though.

He pulled off Potter with an obscene slurp. His throat was pleasantly sore and his lips swollen. He sat back on his heels unsteadily, feeling almost lightheaded.

Potter caught him by his upper arm, still panting as he leaned forward from the couch. “Easy there,”

Draco put his hand on Potter’s knee, instinctively seeking more contact, more grounding, even as he shook his head. “I’m fine, Potter,”

Potter’s laugh was low and sexy and it made Draco’s insides clench despite the magical high he seemed to be on. Without questioning it, Draco gave into the impulse to shoot up so he was kneeling between Potter’s knees and kissing the breath out of the wizard.

Potter’s laugh cut off with an agreeable hum. His large, strong hands gripped Draco’s shoulders and gently massaged him as they kissed. It was almost… sweet.

The kiss ended with Potter landing a small, almost chaste peck on the fullest part of his mouth.

Potter sat back with a small frown, looking him up and down briefly. “You didn’t come?”

Draco blink down at himself, his cock throbbing in his trousers as if affronted that Potter had noticed. “Oh. I guess not,”

In the past week, with all the practice Draco had diligently set himself, he had reached his physical peak each time Potter did. Even without direct stimulation, the pure sensuality of the moment and the rejuvenated sense of magic whenever Potter came inside him was usually plenty to bring him over the edge. In fact, on the few times he’d gone down on Potter without his own pleasure, a simple rub through his pants had done the trick. But this time he’d apparently forgotten, so caught up in the moment, in Potter and the magic, that his own orgasm had fallen out of priority.

This was a first.

Nonsensically, Draco found himself blushing.

“Hey,” Potter took Draco’s chin in hand and lifted to meet his eyes. “This is good,”

Draco snorted, an indelicate habit he blamed entirely on associating with Weasley.

Potter shook him by the chin gently. “It is. Drop your pants and turn around,”

Draco squinted at him suspiciously. Even the Chosen One didn’t have that impressive a refractory period. “Why?”

Potter kissed him again, distracting in the way he licked into the blond's mouth. Draco fought not to chase after his tongue when he pulled back and whispered hotly, “I seem to remember you liked it when I ate you out that first time,”

Heat zapped through him as the memory of their Bonding rushed to the surface of his mind. Shock and arousal, a fair bit of embarrassment, must have presented on his face.

Potter saw it all. He smirked and made a slow circle with his finger to indicate turning around.

Draco stalled for a moment. He was caught between the indignant humiliation of the proposed act and the sudden desire for it. In the back of his mind, he was certain his every well-bred ancestor was cringing and rolling in their graves.

Potter saw the dark thought as surely as he had seen Draco’s shameful enjoyment of it the one and only time they’d done this. The wizard kissed him soundly and whispered against his lips encouragingly:

“Don’t overthink it, Draco. Just do what feels right,”

He felt Potter’s hand tug at the clasp of his jeans, felt Potter’s breath on his lips, the heat of his larger body so close. Potter. His hero. His Master. Draco’s family and their weighty expectations had brought him nothing but hurt and terror and devastating loss, but Potter… Potter only brought him pleasure.

From there, it was so easy.

Heart in his throat, Draco nodded, and together they got his pants tangled down around his knees. Potter spun him about so easily with just his hands on Draco’s hips, and it made them both laugh, hot and short and devilishly sweet. Then Draco was leaning with his forearms on the coffee table, and—

Sweet Merlin and Morgana, that was Potter’s hands all over his backside.

“Yeah,” Potter’s tone was everything dark and hungry and Draco’s cock positively _throbbed_. Potter kneaded his flesh and two thumbs pulled him open with an appreciative growl. “Fuck, look at you. You’re bloody perfect, you are,”

Draco hid his face in his arms. It didn’t matter that Potter couldn’t see his wide-eyed blushing. Draco was too hot, too embarrassed and turned on. He couldn’t handle Potter’s delicious words on top of it all.

A puff of warm breath against his most intimate place was all the warning he had. Draco cried out as Potter’s mouth came down on him, licking and sucking and driving Draco absolutely wild. There was nothing but wetness and nipping teeth and the firm swipes and stabs of Potter’s tongue against his rim, playing with him and drawing out the most absurd noises Draco had ever made in his life. Potter worked him over tirelessly, and just when Draco felt the sting of tears at the corner of his clenched-shut eyes—

“Beautiful,” Potter sounded wrecked as he sat back, petting Draco’s flank. “You ready to come for me, Draco?”

Without lifting his head, Draco nodded frantically. “Please! Please, Potter!”

He was so wet and open, there was practically no resistance as one long, sure finger slid inside him. Potter found that special spot unerringly and _rubbed_. At the same moment, Potter’s mouth was back on him, this time suckling at Draco’s impossibly tight balls.

Draco screamed into his arms as he finally came.

Afterword, once Potter had magicked away the mess and Draco had all but collapsed into his lap, they sat on the floor panting. Draco’s head was feeling pleasantly floaty, almost as if he’d had a nice full glass of wine, and he allowed himself to simply luxuriate in the comfort of Potter’s embrace. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so comfortable, not ever.

Then the glowing blue otter that was Granger’s Patronus breezed into the room.

“Just a friendly reminder, Harry: _we are expected_ at Gringotts in half an hour,”

Granger’s voice certainly didn’t sound friendly, though. It effectively doused Draco’s mood, bringing him down to earth with a jarring yank.

As the otter faded into nothing, Potter heaved a sigh that was, dare Draco hope, disappointed. He felt the wizard open his mouth to speak and suddenly rushed to get ahead of him.

“Take me with you,” Draco blurted out.

Potter tensed and Draco immediately regretted it. His face flushed with humiliation and he winced. It was such a stupid idea. Draco could hardly keep his head in the magical world nowadays, to say nothing to his complete inability to defend himself or even interact with most of the magical world. He would be nothing but a weighty liability amidst whatever heroics Potter and his ilk were up to.

“Nevermind,” Draco got to his feet and pulled his pants up decisively, avoiding Potter’s gaze. “I don’t know why I said that—”

“I want to,”

Draco stilled.

He looked back at Potter, saw him sitting there on the floor, unconcerned with his trouser-less state or that his friends were anxiously waiting for him. The resonating honesty in Potter’s voice was as much as surprise as the wistful expression on his face as he looked up at Draco.

“I want to,” Potter repeated, those green eyes heavy with meaning Draco couldn’t quite make out. “I would keep you near me all the time if I knew it’d be safe for you. But it’s not, and I can’t. I won’t…,”

Apparently, that was too much honest intimacy even for Potter, because he looked away and finally clambered to his feet. His motions were slow and deliberate as he righted his clothing and summoned his overnight bag from across the room.

“Don’t—” Draco began before his brain had a chance to catch up with his tongue.

Potter hitched his bag onto his shoulder and looked at Draco expectantly.

Well. Potter had been boldly honest just now, hadn’t he. Draco could at least try.

Licking his lips, Draco couldn’t quite stare into Potter’s infuriatingly handsome face as he said, “Don’t disappear for so long. You can’t.... I mean… I don’t like being alone for days on end,”

His face felt hot before the last word got out. Potter knew very well that Draco was never left utterly alone for a whole day, even when he took off for a while. Molly and the Weasleys and even Longbottom provided plenty company at such times.

But they weren’t Potter.

A painful sort of pang pulsed in his chest, and Draco nearly succumbed to the urge to run and hide in his room till he was confident Potter was gone. He didn’t have the chance to follow through though.

Potter stepped into his space with two determined strides and snagged him around the waist. The breath rushed out of him as Potter kissed him and Draco, despite all his better judgment and defenses, felt dangerously close to swooning. His Master claimed his mouth with every bit of passion and stubborn forwardness he seemed to do everything.

When it was over Draco would have stumbled if not for the careful, almost reluctant way Potter released him.

“I’ll try to keep it short,” Potter spoke as softly as his finger brushed Draco’s jaw, “And I’ll make it up to you when I get back. Promise,”

Out of nowhere, Draco wanted to stomp his feet and scream like a spoiled child. He wanted to demand Potter stay, to hell with whatever responsibilities or commitments. He wanted Potter to keep giving him those small, gentle touches and to watch the Netflix with him till dawn. He wanted Potter to spend the weekend showing him muggle London instead of running covert missions with Weasley and Granger.

Potter disappeared through the floo and Draco wanted to cry.


	12. Will Wonders Never Cease...?

Two days later, and Harry almost caught himself wishing he’d stayed at home with Draco after all.

“Bloody goblins!” Ron screamed over the lake, shaking his fist madly in the vague direction of Diagon Alley. “If I ever see Griphook again, I’ll kill him! That wanker!”

Harry finished coughing up water as Ron continued venting his rage to the surrounding wilderness. He was shaky and cold from the sudden dive off the dragon’s back, and now that the adrenaline was fading, he realized he was hurt worse than previously suspected from the skin-searing piles of cursed treasure.

He wasn’t the only one. Hermione groaned as she peeled a soaked sleeve back from a blistering mark on her wrist.

“I suspect Griphook isn’t long for this world anyway, Ron,” she said, wincing. “The other goblins won’t take kindly to what he did, helping us,”

Ron scoffed, “You call that _helping_!?”

Personally, Harry was inclined to agree with Ron on that point. It wasn’t a priority at the moment, though. “Do we have something to heal curse burns, Mione? Or do we need to make our way to St Mungos?”

Hermione squinted up at the sun as she considered that. “Technically, it was the Gringot’s vault that was cursed, not the treasure, and certainly not the wounds themselves. I would think a simple first-aid charm would do it,”

“Excellent,” Ron brandished his wand at the patch of skin on his face that was as red as his hair. “ _Episkey_!”

“Oh dear,” Hermione lamented as Ron groaned in equal parts pain and aggravation. She got up to inspect the sores on his face and declared, “Well... it healed them a little,”

“Too little!” Ron complained, gingerly patting at his cheek only to have her wave his fingers away concernedly.

Harry slid his own wand out of his sleeve and thought about the ease with which he had broken the magical bonds chaining the dragon to the Gringot’s cavern. For a wild moment, it had felt almost as if Draco was with him, an easy touching distance right at his side, as the excess magic barreled through his body and out through his wand. Those manacles hadn’t just broken, they’d practically disintegrated.

With a shrug, Harry flipped his wand around to point at a blistering mark on his own cheek and incanted clearly, “ _Episkey_ ,”

The magic flowed over him like a gentle shower, except with the speed of a hurricane. He stumbled as all of his wounds suddenly vanished. It wasn’t just the burns on his face and hands that healed either, but the ache in his ankle he hadn’t even noticed the past two days and even the occasional itch from the scar on his right hand, curtesy of Umbridge, seemed a distant memory. The irritation from his glasses dinging into the bridge of his nose and the itchiness of his eyes from too little sleep were miraculously gone.

All from one little charm.

“Woah,” he said softly, impressed.

Hermione and Ron gaped at him.

“Alright then. _Episkey_ ,” he waved his wand at Hermione, then Ron, “ _Episkey,”_

The phantom of Draco’s presence flickered to vibrancy as he used the extra magic to heal his friends. It was warm and comforting and unbelievably easy. Like the magic was eager to be used. And Harry’s awareness of Draco and their connection had never been stronger.

It was… odd. Harry had felt strong and invigorated when he’d left Draco at home to meet Griphook for reconnaissance, and there had been the expected increase in power that sex with Draco always left him with. But this… Using the Conduit magic didn’t usually feel like that, like Draco was wrapping him in a soothing embrace and purring into his chest contentedly.

“Harry, that was amazing,” Hermione sounded a little breathless with excitement. “I’ve noticed the strength of your spells have been impressive since you fixed things with Draco, but that was… Harry, that was like you used an entirely different spell! Episkey is only designed to heal a single, minor wound!”

“Weird,” Ron said distractedly as he inspected the unmarred skin on his wrist. “Maybe Harry wasn’t tapping into the connection correctly or something?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous,”

“I don’t know," Harry murmured, so softly neither of his companions seemed to hear over their own affectionate bickering. Experimentally, Harry waved his wand gently toward a nearby rock. “Windgardium Leviosa,”

The rock, roughly the size of his head, lifted into the air effortlessly. Along with every other stone larger than a fist within the intimidate vicinity.

Ron and Hermione’s flirtatious bickering went silent.

Harry dropped his wand arm, staring at the floating rocks.

“...Harry?” Hermione stepped closer to him, eyeing his lowered wand, “Put them down,”

Harry looked down at his wand, flummoxed. Simple spells like that usually ended once the caster stopped actively engaging the spell. Curious, he let his fingers relax and his wand clatter to the ground.

The rocks kept floating.

“Uh… guys?” Ron sounded disturbed, “What’s going on here, exactly?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, recognizing the perturbed amazement on each other’s face.

“Harry?” She asked.

“I’m not doing this.” he insisted. “I’m not… I don’t know what...”

“You cast the spell,” Hermione’s resonableness was, as always, impressive in the light of the unexpected nonesense they tended to come across. Still, she didn’t sound all together confident as she told him, “You need to cancel it out,”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Finite In--”

He didn’t bother finishing the cancelation spell. The moment the first word was out, the rocks crashed to the ground.

Ron jumped and squealed. If the entire situation weren’t so utterly bewildering, Harry might have laughed.

As it was, he was again distracted by the impression of Draco’s presence all around him. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d caught the scent of the muggle shampoo the blonde had developed a liking for. The wind blew past his ear and carried a whispering moan that sounded eerily like Draco nearing orgasm.

Harry whipped around, honestly unsure if he was surprised or disappointed to find Draco wasn’t standing directly behind him.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, sounding concerned. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “Something’s different. Something… I don’t know. It’s almost like he’s here,”

“Who’s here?” Ron frowned, starign around at the otherwise deserted shore.

“Draco,”

Arousal burst in his gut and Harry hissed in a breath as his groin ached with the speed of the sudden desire. Harry clenched his teeth and his fists against the urge to grab himself. It almost hurt.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione was saying, oblivious to his plight, “The connection between Master and Conduit is subject to fluxuation, sure, but nothing in my reading suggests a change would occur without a preceeding… interaction.”

“You mean sex, right?” Ron asked, genuinely trying to keep up with her.

“Yes, yes,” she said, sounding a tad flustered, “If Harry’s magic had been acting like this since the last time he was with Draco, that would make sense. I would still wonder what had changed so drastically to result in this kind of impressive power boost, but it’d make sense in the way it would fall in line with previous records concerning Conduits--”

And Harry knew, with a soul-deep kind of knowing that was as undeniable as it was unprecedented, that somehow… something had changed.

In the two days since they’d seen each other, something between Draco and him had changed.

~!~

At that exact moment and on the other side of the country, Draco was laying naked in Harry’s bed.

“Harry...” Draco sighed, eyes closed as he pushed the dildo harder against his sweet spot.

The toy wasn’t quite right-- slightly too thin, definitely too straight, not to mention obnoxiously bright purple in color-- but it was the only half decent toy he could find with same-day shipping on The Google.

He’d bought it the moment he’d first caught himself itching for release, despite zero expectation for a magical high. Potter may have left him lonely, but he’d also left him thrumming with magic. In that regard, he was happily sated still. He wanted the pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“Please, please, please, ooooh….”

He thrust the toy faster. His other hand twisted into a fistful of Potter’s sheets.

Since the first morning after their Bonding, Draco had never slept the night in Potter’s bed. Certainly, he’d been welcomed for any and all manner of sexual shenanigans over the past week or so, but Potter had never made any comment encouraging Draco to stay there to rest, and Potter had never lingered on the occasions they did the deed in Draco’s room. Perhaps there had been moments when Draco felt Potter might be okay with their post-coital sprawling turning into a proper embrace-- a _cuddle_ , he might call it, if Draco wasn’t too ashamed to use the plebeian word in the safety of his own mind. But in the end, he was no Gryffindor and he didn’t risk asking.

Then Potter was gone again. And Draco was alone and… damn it all. He was missing him.

“Please, Harry. Please, I ...”

It would be his little secret, Draco had decided the previous night after Molly had gone home. If he couldn’t have Potter, he would at least have his bed. Potter wouldn’t ever know, so there would be no need for him to reject Draco. Not in this regard.

“I…. I’m… I…. Harry!”

He hadn’t slept particularly well in Potter’s bed last night, but that was a minor matter. He was determined. Besides, he thought he might even have gotten to the core of the problem.

“Master….” Draco moaned sweetly, if a little shy.

He was alone in the house. He knew that. Still, it wasn’t that easy to just give into the safety net of his current solitude and let himself be more careless than ever with his words. With his desires.

“Master,” He tried it out a little louder, little surer.

“Master”

A little needier.

“Master!”

A little freer.

“Master!”

He imagined Potter on top of him, holding him down on those same sheets as he pried Draco’s legs open and fucked into him without hesitation. He wouldn’t touch Draco’s erection, he’d make him come on his cock or not at all. Maybe Draco would still be wet and open from the last round. Maybe he would be dry and it would burn so good. Maybe Potter would tie him to the bed posts and keep him there, naked and ready for days on end. Maybe Potter would manhandle him onto his knees and take him roughly from behind. Maybe he’d hold Draco down by his throat-- he wouldn’t squeeze, not really, maybe just enough to let Draco feel the weight of it, so he’d feel well and truly _owned_.

None of these were new thoughts. But for the first time ever, Draco gave himself permission to fully embrace the fantasy, no matter how rude, how dirty, how dark, how… un-Malfoy-like.

Draco gave into every basest, deeply buried urge he had. He stopped clinging to the idea of being his father’s heir and embraced the idea of being a Conduit.

No. Not a Conduit. _Potter’s_ Conduit.

“Master!” Draco screamed as he came.

And then he really, _really_ gave himself over to the fantasy. Tears leaked from his eyes as he squirmed, spent cock twitching, on Potter’s bed and whimpered words that sounded like a prayer:

“I love you. Harry. Harry. I love you. Love you.”


	13. A Day for Personal Growth and Serious Set Backs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence, guys. Personal shit hit the fan these past few months. Rest assured, I WILL finish this fic. Eventually. :)

“-- Ministry named you Undesirable Number 1. Whatever you do, stay clear of London.”

Arthur Weasley’s Patronus flickered out the moment the message completed. It felt like it took all the positivity in the room with it.

“That didn’t take them long, did it,” Ron snorted.

Harry sighed and rubbed his palms over his face tiredly. He wished he could say he was surprised, but the Ministry and the wizarding public had always been a fickle beast. The moment he’d realized they needed to break into Gringots to retrieve the Cup, he should have known they’d turn on him. Again.

“It’s alright,” Hermione’s voice had a steely quality to it, and Harry knew she was upset and trying not to show it. “We knew it was a long shot that no one would identify us. And we did break several laws, after all.”

“Just how, exactly, do they expect you to ‘vanquish the dark lord’ from Azkaban, anyway?” Ron griped, righteously angry. Or maybe just irritated.

They had all been expecting something like this eventually. There was only so much blatant disregard for official authority Harry could hope to get away with.

Still. Ron made a good point. And Harry hadn’t the faintest idea of the answer.

“The Ministry doesn’t know about the Horcruxes,” Hermione reminded them needlessly, “and they haven’t trusted The Order in years, so it’s doubtful McGonagall will be able to call them off even if she was willing to let the Ministry in on the Hunt.”

Harry gave a humorless laugh, face still in his hands. “And Mad Eye’s running things for the Order, so he’d not likely to have our backs without a price,”

Ron winced, “Yeah but…. The Ministry’s got London and probbaly half the country on lock. We can’t stay here in a muggle motel indefinitely. Maybe Mad eye’s price won’t be--”

“No,” Hermione cut in, cold and firm, “I already know what Mad Eye will want, and it most definitely will be too high a price.”

Harry lifted his head at that. “What makes you so sure?”

Hermione raised an expectant brow at him, “Seriously? Mad-Eye already knows from expeirence he can’t control you by just about any means, and the Order has no need for the Potter family fortune. What else does that leave?”

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, then both turned to her with matching shrugs.

Hermione looked skyward with a long-suffering groan. “What’s the one thing you have that any other wizard would die to get their hands on,”

She waited expectantly.

“Dunno,” Ron admitted readily.

“The fame and prestige of the chosen one,” Harry deadpanned, possibly only half-joking. Even he wasn’t sure anymore.

Hermione stared at them. “Wow.”

“Blimey, woman,” Ron grumbled, “Won’t you just spit it out already.”

She croseed her arms over her chest in a startling impression of McGonagall at her most utterly unimpressed.

Harry didn’t have the energy for this. “Well?”

She met his eye pointedly and said, “Draco,”

“So no help from the Order,” Ron said succintly, “Got it,”

Harry felt a pang of something suspiciously like worry, maybe even guilt. It had been five full days since he last saw the blonde; what was meant to be a quick seek-and-destroy mission had turned into a right mess, starting with their explosive escape from Gringots on the back of a dragon, then a remarkably resilient Horcrux to kill, and half the wizarding world out to either kill (Death Eaters) or capture (Ministry) them.

He’d been largely outside the range of any cell phone towers in that time, of course. And Draco didn’t have the means to receive a Patronus message or even safely converse using Floo.

Fuck.

Harry waved his wand and summoned the sleek little phone from his bag. As the device zoomed across the room, Harry was unexpectedly saddened to see how very nearly normal his magic was working. He could still feel Draco’s magic in the corner of his awareness, but it was muted and nothing like how it had been after the Gringots breakin. Now it felt like how it always did after it’d been a while since he’d been with the blonde. The magical boost was loosing strength, fading fast.

Harry glared at the corner of his phone where the icons blinked as it searched pointlessly for a signal. He opened his text messages to see the only conversation in the inbox.

Harry: Had complications. Dont worry. We r safe

Draco: When will you be back?

Harry: Not sure yet

That last message, woefully inadequate as it was, was highlighted in red with the accompanied “message failed” notation.

Harry felt like an utter ass hat.

“Shit,” he lurched to his feet as an alarming thought occurred to him. Ron and Hermione jumped to the ready, palming their wands even as Harry shouted a hasty: “Expecto Patronum!”

The moment the stag materialized, Harry laid his free hand on it’s snout and hoped his urgency translated well as he dictated. “I’ve a message for Neville Longbottom: The Ministry and the Order pose a threat. Find Draco, keep him safe for me. I’ll come for him soon as I can.”

He pulled his hand back and the stag took off like the hounds of hell were at it’s heels.

“That’s good thinking,” Ron agreed, sounding shaken, “If I were someone like Umbridge, the first thing I’d do is send someone to your place to pick him up,”

Hermione stiffened, “It’s been days since Grngots. You don’t think he’s already...”

“No,” Harry held up his hand as if to ward her off. “The house is under my Fideleas charm, unless Mad Eye manages to con a Weasley into doing his dirty work for him, neither the Order or the Ministry can touch him. No. I’m sure he’s fine.”

He had to be fine.

~!~

Draco was not fine.

He was moping.

Potter hadn’t responded to any of his texts, and Molly had been driving him crazy with this worried little pinched expression every time Draco tried to get any information out of her. It was always “they’re just in a spot of trouble, as usual,” and “it’ll blow over soon enough, dearie,” usually accompied by some version of “not to worry, Draco, not to worry. They know how to handle themselves,”

He didn’t believe for a moment that she knew nothing more. She had details, he was certain, but as a moreorless loyal member of the Order, she wasn’t about to share them with him.

Draco wasn’t sure what hurt worst, the idea that he wasn’t trustworthy for being a former Death Eater, or that his having information was a useless liability because he was a mere Conduit who couldn’t do anything to help.

So he was moping. He was actually trying to cheer himself up with a stroll and a treat from the nearby coffee hut, but ultimately he was still moping. At least he wasn’t moping in Potter’s bed any longer. For now.

“Are you alright, son?”

Draco stopped glaring at the steaming paper cup in his hand to look up at the elderly muggle man standing on the walkway nearby. A small dog, a white and grey mutt of some sort, was tap dancing at the end of a leash beside him, sniffing at Draco eagerly.

“I’m fine,” he said haltingly.

He abruptly realized what he must look like to the muggles in the park. He was perched uncomfortably on the very edge of a cold park bench, practically swimming in one of Potter’s old Christmas sweaters. He’d been lost in thought, glowering into his drink for an unseemly long time, he was sure. His voice was weak and rough, like he’d been crying, which he hadn’t been, not really.

He cleared his throat and tried to recall the smile he’d perfected as the charming Malfoy heir. “I’m fine,” he repeated.

The man didn’t look convinced.

The dog waddled forward on legs far too short for the length of its body and nudged Draco’s knee with a sympathetic whine.

“Aw, well,” the man followed the pup’s lead and leaned in kindly, “it sure seems Winnie likes you. You must be a good ‘un, eh?”

Winnie gave a yip and reared up to put her front paws on Draco’s knee. She panted at him, tongue lolling and her tail waving happily.

“Go on then,” the man motioned for him to pet the animal.

Draco blinked down at the dog and wondered if Potter would agree, if he considered Draco “a good ‘un,” or a good anything, for that matter. Inexplicably, he felt himself choking up.

He set the cup on the bench by his hip, safely away from the eager pup. He figured agreeing to entertain the man and his dog would be more dignified than trying to speak and breaking down in front of a stranger, and in public no less.

Then again, he may have underestimated the power of small, fluffy creatures.

Winnie licked his fingers, all exuberance and unconditional joy at securing his attention. Draco positively melted.

“There you go, now,” the muggle sat beside him and lifted Winnie off the ground to hold her wriggling form out to him. “She’s just a runt of a thing, but you’ve got the right of it, nice and gentle like,”

Draco swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat as he took Winnie in his hands. She felt so fragile and tiny, yet so wild and lively as she squirmed around and did her best to get her saliva all over him.

And just like that, Draco found his tears licked away and a genuine smile on his face.

“Alright, alright,” he snickered, holding her at arms length, an admittedly dramatic distance from his face. “that’s enough now,”

The muggle chuckled as Draco handed the dog back. “Nothing like it, right? Man’s best friend, indeed,”

“Indeed,” Draco agreed, giving Winnie’s head another pat. He kept his eyes on the dog, just to be safe, he quietly said, “Thank you,”

The man waved the thanks away, “Never mind that. We all need a little help, now and again,”

Draco met the man’s watery eyes, the skin around them drooping with age and laugh lines. He remembered a time, not too long ago, when he would have been disgusted by the mere thought of sharing a bench and not-so-casual interation with such a man. It occurred to him that he was as far from the entitled, hateful boy he’d been as it was possible to be.

Maybe he _was_ good. Maybe not as good as Potter, or even Weasley or Granger, but he was well on his way, perhaps.

“She’s lovely,” Draco nodded at Winnie, feeling the need to prove he could be amicable with the muggle beyond accepting the man’s comforting gesture. The least he could do was repay the kindness with a little conversation.

“Ah yes,” the man patted her head with an affectionate smile, letting her lick his fingers, “She’s just a pup, mind you, and she needs a good bit a training yet, but--”

Winnie yipped in alarm just as a cool voice announced:

“Avada Kedavra,”

A streak of green light flew past Draco and hit the muggle, cutting off his words. Draco watched, dumb with shock as the life fled those saggy, gentle eyes. The muggle’s body began to slump against the park bench. The puppy in his lap howled as the arthritic hands went limp around her.

Horrified, Draco reached out without thinking. It felt like the world had slowed down, the muggle’s body still falling in sudden death and Draco’s hands moving to catch him in a single moment stretched over hours.

His right hand stopped the muggle’s back from hitting the bench, and the weight of him-- dead weight-- was all the more jarring as the small, precious puppy leaped into his arm. Draco caught her, stunned.

What just happened…

“It’s no surprise you’d be here, among the vermin,”

A shadow fell over him. Draco looked up to see a vaguely familiar man looming directly behind him, robed with wand in hand, the official badge of a senior Auror pinned to his chest. The smile on his face as he looked Draco over was predatory.

Draco’s legs shook as he stood, backing away as he cradled a trembling Winnie to his chest.

A touch of something victorious complimented the Auror’s predatory look. “The whole wizarding world’s been looking for you for days, Malfoy. Looks like Potter hasn’t been doing you any favors beyond landing you back in trouble again.”

“...We’re bonded.” Draco muttered, voice quite and shaken. He was so confused, scared, reeling from the emotional roller coaster of the past moments. “I… I’m useless to you,” Reassured by this fact, Draco calmed his shaking and said more firmly, “I’m bonded to Potter already, have been for months,”

The Auror shrugged, unconcerned. “Bonds can be broken.”

Fresh fear flooded him. Winnie whined as his arms tightened around her.

“Now drop that thing and let’s get you back where you belong. The Dark Lord’s waiting for you,”

Draco ran.

A big, mean hand snagged a clump of his hair, yanking his head back and sending him tumbling to the ground. The breath knocked out of him and Winnie growled as she scrambled to snap at the Auror, earning herself a swift kick that sent her little body flying from Draco’s hold.

“No!” He cried, twisting to scramble after her.

The same foot that had kicked the puppy landed on his chest, knocking the air form his lungs anew and grinding him into the unforgiving stones of the park walkway. Pain bloomed throughout his chest and and Draco grabbed as the thick calf ineffectively.

“That’s a good Conduit,” The Auror sneered, “flat on your back, where you belong.”

“Runcorn!”

The evil smirk on the Auror’s face, his shoulders tensing as he turned to look at someone beyond Draco’s terrified line of sight.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Auror?!”

Somehow, Draco found the capacity for rational thought. He sucked in a breath around the heavy pressure on his chest and cried as loudly as crushing weight allowed: “Death Eater!”

There was a moment’s pause, stunned silence.

Then the world lit up with streaks of light and color as spells streaked overhead in rapid-fire.

Runcorn pushed his foot off of Draco with a sickening shove, making his ribs creak sickeningly. Draco barely had a moment to appreciate the release before the Auror/Death Eater grabbed him by Potter’s sweater and yanked him up.

“Don’t hit the Conduit!” Someone screamed in warning.

Runcorn pulled Draco in front of him and in his new position as a human shield, Draco saw no less than three other Aurors within easy firing distance. One of them, a dark skinned, bald fellow looked familiar and Draco kept his desperate gaze on him.

Merlin, but he had never felt so helpless before.

“Back off, Shacklebolt, Prewitt. He’s the rightful property of the Dark Lord, and you know it!”

Shacklebolt-- Draco recognized the name with a lurch of hope-- had a look of distaste as he answered, “Legally, he’s still Harry’s. Now let him go. You’re outnumbered.”

Runcorn laughed mockingly in Draco’s ear, “Didn’t you hear Umbridge? Potter forfeited his right to this fine piece of ass the moment he decided to make himself a felon! We just got to him first. Finders keepers, and all that.”

“Imagine that,” a female Auror scoffed from somewhere in Draco’s periphery. “A Death Eater using muggle turns of phrase. Will wonders never cease,” She sounded close.

Runcorn must have realized it too. With a snarl, he jerked Draco around. They spun and Draco had the horrifying thought that it was all over, that Runcorn had gotten away with it and was in the process of apparating them away. He felt the compression of the transporting magic begin just as something soft and warm latched onto his foot.

And as he was stollen away, Draco despaired for the poor, innocent muggle and his sweet, abandoned puppy.

  
  



	14. In Which Draco Escapes, Adopts a Dog, and gets Adopted in Turn

The thing about Conduits is: they can’t do magic. They can’t ride a broom or floo under their own power. They also, apparently, could not side-along apparate effectively.

Draco tripped, face first into gravel and dirt as as Runcorn cursed and groaned. The tumble ripped him from Runcorn’s grasp viciously, his shoulder protesting sharply. He rolled onto his back, panting from adrenaline, only to see they had landed somewhere unfamiliar, on a dirt road trailing alongside a forest. Turning his head this way and that frantically, Draco realized he couldn’t see any sign of civilization, but the distinct sound a muggle vehicles was nearby nonetheless.

He was still looking around frantically when a ball of fluff pounced on his shoulder and his face was bathed in Winnie’s equally earnest kisses.

“Fuuucking hell...”

Draco’s held a whining Winnie away from his face so he could pin point Runcorn. The wizard was flat on his back, groaning and holding his left arm… or rather, what was left of it. He’d splinched himself. Morbidly fascinated, Draco squinted and noticed pieces of Runcorn’s jaw and ear were missing, replaced with bloody, ragged holes. He rolled, groaning, and one blood-shot eye glared at Draco venomously.

The realization was uncomfortable: in trying to use magic to abscond with Draco, Runcorn had handed him an escape route.

Winnie nibbled on his finger pointedly.

Draco took the hint.

He scooped up the dog and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

~!~

The Longbottom Estate was, thankfully, set well into the English countryside. Neville had refused Mad-Eye’s offer to join the Order fresh out of Hogwarts, and the Ministry’s noticed had skipped over him entirely, so Harry was pretty confident the place was as safe a refuge as any place. It helped that Madam Longbottom was her own secret keeper since her son and daughter-in-law had died, and she was more than happy to have her grandson’s back and throw her lot in support of The Chosen One.

It was one of the reasons Harry had originally invited Neville to involve himself with Draco. Besides the Weasley and the Longbottoms, Harry could think of very few people he could trust with something so important as Draco’s well being.

He didn’t just trust Neville, either. He respected him and had every faith in the wizards ability, no matter what the ignorant public seemed to think about the rotund, often unimpressive man.

So yes. Harry was honestly surprised and dismayed when he got to the Estate not even a full 24 hours after sending his Patronus message only to find Draco was no where to be seen.

“What do you mean ‘ _missing_ ,’?” He stressed, trying and failing to keep from glaring at his friend.

“Well...” Neville blushed, shrugging.

“He means just that,” Hermione sighed heavily where she had collapsed on Grandma Longbottom’s lounge chaise in utter dejection. “He’s missing. He wasn’t at home and he doesn’t know where he’s gone.”

“At first I figured he’d stepped out for a bit,” Neville admitted, “I hung around for a while, even tried to send him a message on the cell-thing, but you know how rubbish I am with muggle tools…”

Harry’s own phone buzzed in his hand at that moment and he rushed to access the new message.

It was the beginning of a group text, between himself, Draco, Ron and Hermione. Harry’s heart caught in his throat when he realized who it was from. Rather, who it _wasn’t_ from.

Ron: D, where r u? Nev came 2 get u & u were gone. WTF.

“Nice, Ronald,” Hermione grumbled. “I’m sure that’s exactly the way to facilitate positive communication.”

“I’m trying, aren’t I?”

They fumed silently at one another.

It had been a tense few days. Since the Ministry had decided to use the public against them as effectively as Voldemort ever had, the three of them had been struggle to determine which of their contacts and resources were safe to rely on. The Gringotts debacle had been spectacularly public, and more than just Bellatrix Lestrange and the goblins were beyond agitated at the moment.

Harry belatedly realized the dragon just might have been a poor judgment call. No one, and he meant _no one_ , seemed happy about the messy, very public fall out from that, even among their friends.

It had been… eye opening, to say the least.

And then they had realized-- again, belatedly-- the effect the whole mess might have on Draco. Since then, all three of their moods had been in a steady decline, a constant feedback loop of spiraling worry and inept anger and frustration.

Neville stared between the three of them, and Harry realized he’d been frowning so hard at the other two that his brow ached.

“Uh… everything alright?” Neville asked cautiously.

Harry shook off the unhelpful moodiness and turned his phone over in his hand. Still, his response was short and clipped, “Fine. We just need to find him.”

~!~

Draco was entirely unfamiliar with the little muggle town Runcorn had effectively stranded him in. Well, near. The vehicles he’d heard had been on a major road that eventually led to a town. It took Draco hours to reach it, Winnie in tow. He ran as often as he could, walked when his body forced the issue, and prayed to any and all higher powers that Runcorn was too injured to come after him.

He was beyond grateful the town was even there, yes, but the unfamiliar surroundings were only a few steps down on the scale of terror. He was alone, in a muggle world he was only barely knowledgable of the basics of, and while the cold autumn air no longer felt biting to him, Draco had a sneaking suspicion that this might be more cause for concern than a reprieve. Oh, and he was being chased by Merlin-only-knew how many factions of wizarding enemies.

And Draco was certain that they were all his enemies. Anyone who threatened his bond to Potter was.

He cuddled Winnie close to his face, warming his nose in her fur as he walked down the main street of the town. Remarkably, she didn’t seem badly hurt, despite Runcorn’s mean kick.

He was slowly regaining his breath, for the umpteenth time, his panting almost weak enough to disguise entirely. He had ran full-tilt as long and often as his screaming thighs and burning lungs would let him, and now the relative safety of the town only comforted him enough to ease to a brisk walk. He’d been walking through this sleepy little town, aimlessly, for what felt like ages as he tried to calm down while still keeping a paranoid eye out for anything remotely magical.

Speaking of paranoia… well, considering the situation, perhaps the word didn’t qualify, but no matter. As his panic finally began to receed, Draco felt his better reasoning wake up. He became painfully aware of his position, outside, exposed, on a main thoroughfare in the town nearest to where a now-known Death Eater had accidentally dropped him.

He had no means of magical transport, and no one had thought to teach him how to get around the muggle way. The moment anyone discovered Runcorn, they’d know exactly where to find him.

 _Get off the road,_ some tiny, animal instinct whispered in the back of his mind.

Draco tucked Winnie under Potter’s sweater and ducked into the next shop he came across.

It was a bookstore, with a cozy little cafe tucked in the far back corner.

Thank Merlin and Morgana.

He hadn’t intended to be outside for so long. His extremeties and face were achingly numb with cold and he regretted thinking his trip to the park would be perfectly serviced by the meager warmth of Potter’s sweater over a muggle t-shirt and a hot cup of tea to warm his hands. The cup, probably spilled back on the park bench outside Potter’s place, felt like it’d been his hand days ago.

He made a beeline for the cafe counter and something hot to warm him up.

Fortunately, he had plenty of muggle money in his pocket. It wasn’t the full amount Potter usually left him with whenever he intended to be gone for days at a time, but it was a sizable chunk nonetheless. Muggle transactions were similar enough to what Draco grew up with, even if he didn’t always remember the exact value of each coin. He had enough for tea and even a hot meal, maybe even a biscuit for Winnie.

It was when he reached into his pocket for the cash that he remembered he had a means of communication.

Or rather… he used to.

“Er… alright, mate?” The teenage boy behind the counter asked when Draco went still at the sight of the cell phone in his hand.

There was an alarming web of cracks covering the screen, and Draco was immediately as close to crying in public as he had been when Winnie’s owner had sat beside him.

Merlin’s beard. Winnie’s owner.

Draco coughed to hide his sob. He sniffed even as he threw a random bill down on the counter. “I’m fine,” he said, surely sounding anything but.

Winnie whimpered beneath the sweater. Draco gasped as he nearly dropped her. His eyes stung. Merlin, but he felt pathetic.

“We’re only supposed to let service animals in here...” the muggle trailed off awkwardly, eyeing the wiggling lump in Potter’s sweater.

Draco blushed. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll… if I could just get a tea, I’ll---”

All his well-groomed, aristocratic bearing had long since left him. It shouldn’t have been such a hard realization that he was seemingly incapable of holding onto his dignity in front a strange muggle boy. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

He hadn’t been able to help Winnie’s owner. He wasn’t able to help himself. He’d escaped Runcorn by shear dumb luck, a tiny fortunate side effect of the pathetic thing he had become. Potter, Granger and Weasley had tried so hard to help him adapt, to breathe some life back into him, and it got him as far as a muggle shop turning him away practically at the door.

For the first time in months, Draco wished his mother had just let him die.

“Here,” the boy said, setting a large mug on the counter along with his change. Then he pulled a muffin out of the glass display using a napkin and set it down as well. “On the house. Just make sure the little guy doesn’t piss in here,”

Yet again that day, Draco found he couldn’t make himself meet the eye of a muggle.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

He stowed the change and somehow managed to collect the rest and slide into the most out-of-the-way table he could find, all without dropping Winnie. He hushed her gently when she whimpered and snuck her a piece of the muffin without letting her free of the sweater. She took it happily and licked the crumbs from his fingers appreciatively. The heat of her little body, her quick tongue, sent tendril of pain through his hands as his circulation picked up the slack.

He kept feeding her like that, tea forgotten and fingers tingling with renewed sensation, as he stared numbly at the ruined screen of his phone.

“Excuse me?”

He looked up to see a young woman, perhaps half a dozen years older than himself. There was an infant strapped to her chest, sleeping easily as the woman swayed rhythmically from side to side. Her motion was totally uninterrupted even as she stopped to chat with him.

The concerned frown on her face gave way to a soft, sympathetic smile when she got a good look at his face. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was just… kind.

“Do you need some help, Hon?”

Draco blinked at her. Help? Yes, most definitely. But Winnie was a very squirmy reminder that the help he needed probably wasn’t to be found here.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “No, thank you… I’m fine,”

He turned away, but she didn’t acknowledge the dismissal. She stepped closer. “Hon, why don’t I call the coppers for you, yeah? You can tell them… whatever happened, and they’ll get you the help you need.”

This only confused him further. “I don’t….” then, slowly, “...what?”

The concerned expression returned to her face, overrunning her smile with a vengeance. She stopped rocking her baby in favor of leaning forward and gently touching his cheek.

Draco flinched at the unexpected pain. He went to clap a hand over his face but she stopped him.

“Here, love,” she slung the nappy bag off her shoulder and whipped out a wet wipe, still holding his hand. She cleaned the sugar and dirt from his skin and beneath his nails-- when did he get so filthy-- then retrieved a second wipe and made a cautious motion toward his face. “May I?”

And Draco didn’t know what to say. He floundered for a moment, staring at her. It must have gone long enough, because she titled his chin up and began dabbing at his face. It stung.

“Not too bad,” she murmured kindly, “Looks worse than it is. Still, even a shallow scrape could get infected if you don’t keep it clean, you know,”

She tossed the wipe on the table, reaching for a fresh one. It was spotted with brown-grey dirt, yes, but also smeared with pink.

He was… bleeding? When had that happened…

With a sense of detachment, Draco realized his eyes were no longer threatening to start leaking. He was, at least for the moment, distracted by the mystery of his apparent new facial wound.

The woman finished cleaning Draco’s face, saying softly, “You’ll want to go to the toilet and wash it properly, but at least your sorted. Well. More or less. Are you sure I can’t call anyone for you?”

She pulled a sleek and perfectly functioning phone from her back pocket, thumb poised and ready.

Draco’s breath caught with a flare of hope. But of course! All muggles carried phones! And all phones could interact with all others! He remembered Granger explaining how the list of codes hidden within his own device worked. He sat up straight and said, “Actually, yes… Oh.”

He deflated, gaze returning to his own phone. His dead phone. He didn’t know the exact codes for Potter or Granger. He doubted he even knew the correct sequence of actions to input the information in a different device. “I have people I can call… I just don’t know how,”

The woman pointed at his phone. “You don’t have their number memorized, you mean?”

Draco shook his head, feeling that despondent helplessness creeping up him again.

“No matter,” she said so easily, “No one bothers nowadays, not when everything’s gone digital. Looks like you can probably save the SIM card though,”

As she spoke, Draco found himself profoundly exhausted. He didn’t have the energy to cry or even blush as he shamefully admitted, “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

There was a silent pause, and Draco could feel her staring at him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He focused his attention on the puppy in his lap, hands under Potter’s sweater so he could feel her fur, the fragile bones and soft warmth beneath it all.

He must have zoned out. Maybe he even fell asleep for a long moment.

The pain startled him out of it. It was his feet. They were finally warm enough to start complaining about the massive amount of running and walking in the cold. His toes curled and he bit back a moan of pain. There were blisters. It hurt, a throbbing, irritated hurt that was probably going to get much worse, and his right foot felt suspiciously wet and he suspected he was bleeding.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder jostling him, and when he looked up the woman was sitting at the table beside him, her baby awake and cooing. Draco’s broken phone lay on the table still, but it had been partially pulled apart without his notice.

The woman held out her phone up so he could see her screen. “You’ve only got six contacts on here, Hon. And I thought I was antisocial.”

Draco blinked. He unwrapped his fingers from Winnie’s fur and rubbed his face, then refocused. Huh. Somehow, she’d rescued the information from his destroyed phone. He was looking at the familiar list, six names, just as she said, only it was on her device instead of his own.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Molly, Ginny.

He reached out to take the phone, but the muggle pulled it from him at the last minute, a grave expression on her face.

She caught his eye pointedly, “Tell me honestly. Are one of these people the one who shoved your face in the ground and left you freezing your nuts off?”

“What? No,” he frowned at her. Why on earth would think that…

“You haven’t got a coat and your lips were blue when you came in, hon.” she waved her hand at the remains of Draco’s phone, “And you were left with a broken phone and your cash. You weren’t mugged. Who attacked you? Was it one of these people?”

“No, of course not,” Draco felt himself flushing, ashamed and inexplicably angry at the implication.

Potter would never hurt him. It was part of the reason Draco found himself falling in love so quickly. Potter meant safety. And comfort. And pleasure. Potter _could_ hurt him, so easily and in ways literally no other person alive could. But he wouldn’t.

Potter would never hurt him.

~!~

“Kinsgley said the Auror’s should be able to track Runcorn’s wand by nightfall,” Arthur’s voice sounded from the weasel patronus with more optimism than Harry felt warranted. “It’s unlikely they got far, given the idiot was trying to apparate a conduit, so the Ministry’s got people scouring the area surrounding the park where he was taken. If we’re lucky, Runcorn made it to his destination without Draco in tow. We’ve got a theoretician in the Department of Mysteries who’s confident Draco wouldn’t be capable of following the apparation jump all the way through. He’s also sure we don’t need to worry about splynching for the same reason; more likely the magic will just spit him out part way through. The moment Kingsley or Tonks tell me anything, I’ll pass it on.”

“Well,” Ron said cautiously as the patronus faded away. “At least now we know why he wasn’t home when Neville went for him,”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville glared at him.

“Are you suggesting,” Grandma Longbottom said without looking up from her knitting, “we should be _relieved_ to learn the most powerful magical construct’s last known whereabouts is in the hands of a known Death Eater?”

Ron flushed, “Well, when you put it like that...”

“That was hours ago anyway,” Neville interrupted. “You said he doesn’t leave the house without his phone, so he should have called or texted one of us by now if he was able.”

“Nev’s right,” Harry rubbed at his temples, his head throbbing. They’d been at the Longbottom’s estate for nearly three hours now, and the news about Draco having been snatched by Runcorn felt like absolutely too little too late. “We have to assume the Death Eaters have him,”

“Maybe not, though,” Hermione said reasonably, “Maybe the magic of apparating just… dropped him… somewhere,”

She winced, the implication hitting her as she spoke. She wasn’t the only one.

“He could be injured.” Ron looked a little sick, “maybe even--”

“Don’t say dead,” Harry growled at him. “Don’t you fucking dare,”

“He should have contacted us by now,” Ron insisted.

“I bloody well know that,” Harry hissed, “I also know he’s not dead. He’s Bound to me, remember? I would know if he was dead.”

Harry wondered if he would though. Three days ago, sure, he’d felt so connected to Draco that he might as well have been standing right beside him every time he used his wand. If anything had happened to Draco then, Harry was certain he would have felt it. But that eerily sensitive connection had faded along with the power boost, which had gradually weakened like always. Apparently the frequent and vigorous sex they’d had the previous week hadn’t changed how long the effects would last.

They still didn’t have a clue how to explain the phenomenal and short lived exuberance his magic had exhibited that evening right after the Gringotts break in.

And now Draco was missing, possibly injured or worse, and Harry couldn’t be bothered to think about anything else.

A chorus of chirps and bells filled the room and everyone jumped.

Immediately, Harry, Ron, Hermione opened their phones.

“Bloody hell!” Ron groaned in apparent relief as Hermione jumped up with a cheer.

Harry was too busy responding to the message.

Draco: I don’t know where I am. A muggle town. Burford, I guess?

Harry: Are you safe? Where’s Runcorn?

It took a painfully long moment, the flickering ellipsis in the chat the only reassurance that Draco was still in contact with them while they waited for his response. When it came, it was disappointingly short.

Draco: Not sure. Splynched himself.

And Harry didn’t immediately know what to make of that.

“What does he mean, ‘not sure’?” Ron gripped.

“This is stupid,” Harry huffed, hitting the call button.

Immediately, Hermione and Ron stowed their own devices and crowded around him, Neville half a step behind. Hermione grabbed Harry’s wrist as the first ring tone sounded and hit the speaker icon.

The ring cut immediately as the call was accepted, but it wasn’t Draco’s voice on the other end.

“Is this Harry?”

Harry tensed at the unfamiliar female voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the good samaritan who’s lending this poor boy my phone. Who am I speaking to?”

Harry and the others exchanged bewildered looks. Ron was sporting his most emphatic WTF expression.

“Hello?”

“Harry Potter,” Harry finally answered.

“And how do you know Draco, exactly?”

“Uh… we… went to school together,” then Harry shook himself and pulled it together, “Not that it’s any business of yours. Let me speak to Draco.”

“Not so fast there,” the woman scolded in an imitation of Molly so startling accurate that both Harry and Ron felt their backs straighten in alarm.

To the side, Neville muttered to no one in particular, “What is even happening right now?”

“He’s in a right state, poor thing,” the woman said, still sounding as if she blamed them for said condition, “and I’ve got half a mind to take him to hospital and put him in touch with the authorities--”

“Hospital?” Hermione squeaked.

Harry’s tone turned steely as he spoke over the stranger’s voice, “What happened to him? Tell me where he is,”

“I will not,” the woman snarled back at him, “Him and the pup’s been through enough, and I’m not going to just hand him over to the first person who shows up without doing my civic duty by making sure he’s safe.”

“Pup?” Neville asked, again to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Ron asked, “Since when was there a pup involved?”

“Shut up,” Harry glared at them.

“Well,” The woman on the phone said it as if she’d just had her mind made up, “You don’t sound like a particularly nice sort,”

Harry sputtered, “E-excuse me?”

“Are you his boyfriend?”

“That-- that’s none of your bloody business!”

“I’m making it my business,”

Neville sat on the couch heavily and stared at Harry with wide eyes as he whispered to himself, “This is amazing,”

“Listen, you ignorant...” Harry fumbled for a word, ultimately to bewildered and anxious to settle on anything more eloquent than: “ _fuck_. Draco is special and he’s my responsibility so you--”

“Well la-dee-da! Hell of a good job you’re doing, aren’t you?”

“Wha-- you--!”

“I’m taking him to Burford General Hospital,” she said decisively, paying his angry sputtering no mind, “If you’re so responsible for him, you can bring him a replacement phone and a new pair of shoes. And you should know, the staff at the BG know how to spot domestic violence--”

“Domestic what?!”

“-- easily. And I trust them a hell of lot more than I trust you,”

Harry hung up the phone with scowl.

“Oh. My. Merlin,” Hermione said, her hand over her mouth.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Ron said, then sounded scandalized as he added, “And you hung up on her!?”

“How is there a puppy involved?” Neville asked interestingly.

Harry glared at all of them. “Piss off. I’m apparently going to Burford.”


	15. Harry Just Can't Seem to Catch a Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a few chapters of pretty heavy stuff, so here's a more comedic relief, or something like that, with only a little heart-string tugging, I hope. ;) Enjoy!

In all honesty, Draco wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been abducted again. He didn’t think so, but it was a near thing.

“Promise me you’ll at least _talk_ to the social worker before you’re discharged,” Mindy repeated her demand for the fifth time as she nursed baby Westley in the chair beside Draco’s hospital bed.

Draco was just as persistent with his answer, even if his words were slow and slurred from the muggle medicine. “That’sss not necessary. Really. And Harry does-- _doesn’t_ beat me.”

He’d been telling her this for the past hour, ever since she’d stollen the phone back when Harry had tried to call him. For reasons he could not understand, she refused to believe him. Like now, for example.

“I know you’re afraid,” she patted his hand where it rested on Winnie’s sleeping form, “But you’ll be safe if you want to press charges. Men like that aught to be held accountable far more often than they are. I remmeber what it was like when I finally left my ex, and I promise, I’ll help you,”

She squeezed his hand, all maternal reassurance and Draco soaked it up in spite of himself. He was in pain and, according to what passed for healers amung muggles, a fair amount of shock. He was exhausted and otherwise alone, and he missed his own mother fiercely. He couldn’t help but lean into Mindy’s every offered comfort.

Winnie’s too for that matter.

Merlin, but how had he gone over two decades on this earth without knowing how kind and wonderful muggles could be.

And so _capable_ they were too.

Draco had overestimated the damage to his feet, but only just. He was badly blistered, and several of the sores had ruptured and oozed clear fluid into his socks, but the puddle of blood he had envisioned back at the shop was practically nonexistant. A few beads of blood became obvious after a nurse cleaned his feet, just before appling something called Medication and wrapping him in clean bandages.

The cleaning and salve they’d subjected his feet to were a far cry from simple healing charms, but Draco knew better than to be anything but grateful. By the time Mindy had bundled him into her car to bring him here, walking had been nearly unbareable.

Even more unbareable with the mournful knowledge that there would be no numbing potion for the pain, nor magical aid to repair the damage in moments till it was nothing but a distant memory.

Of course, that was before he’d learned about morphine.

Mindy had held his hand tightly as the muggle healers stuck a needle through his skin and taped it down. He hadn’t like it, hadn’t wanted it, but Mindy promised his panic was unnecessary and that it would help him feel better. He’d been shocked to find she was right.

Why, he wondered, hadn’t Granger told him muggles had their own brand of magic.

The damage was still there, he could see the bandages on his feet and feel the edges of the one taped to his cheek, but he couldn’t feel it. He was completely pain-free, just as if he’d taken a numbing potion.

Just like. Except morphine was _better_. Since they’d given him some, he’d been all…. Floaty.

It was wonderful.

“Harry doesn’t,” he slurred, rolling his head against the pillow, “he doesn’t do that. He’s nice. Pretty eyes.”

“So you mentioned,” said the uniformed muggle who was messing with something on the clear bag of fluid that led into Draco’s hand.

Mindy chuckled as she popped Westley off her breast and adjusted her clothing. “Nice with pretty eyes or not, he seemed like an ass to me when I spoke to him,”

Draco hummed unconcernedly, shaking his head in the negative. The motion made the room spin in a most interesting manner.

“His tolerance is abysmal,” The uniformed muggle said to Mindy. “We’ll give him another bag of fluids before we release him, but he probably shouldn’t be home alone with that perscription,”

“His boyfriend said he’s coming to get him,”

That made Draco giggle. “Harry’ssss not my boyfriend.”

He had only attempted to correct Mindy some time after the morphine. It hadn’t been important before.

“He’sss my… He’s mine. Or something. My something.”

The muggle healer snorted, “High as a kite. I’ll send him home with something a little less potent, I think. Tell the _boyfriend-something_ to get a move on, yeah? We’re not admitting him, and the ER needs the bed,”

“Will do, Doctor,” Mindy agreed readily, already tapping away at her phone-- which was still masquerading as Draco’s.

There was silence as she typed out a message, but it dragged on long enough that Draco wondered if he was asleep without noticing. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that, not since the Morphine.

But he hadn’t. Mindy eventually broke the silence, her voice grave and earnest. “Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to know… Hospital security’s gonna have a chat with Harry before they let him in to see you,”

Draco frowned in confusion, “That’s… it’s… silly. Why?”

She sighed and Draco felt his heart melt as he watched her squeeze Westley close for comfort, “I just… I know what it’s like to be in situation you feel trapped in. I recognize the signs. I just don’t get the impression you’re safe with him.”

That didn’t make sense. Draco was never safer than he was when he was with Harry. Her words were ridiculous, and yet everything else about her in that moment, even through the fog of the medicine, told him this was absolutely serious.

With perhaps more insight than he normally would have gleaned from a few short hours in the company of a muggle, Draco whispered: “You were hurt,”

Mindy gave a sad little smile as she peered down at her baby, “Yes,”

He wanted to cry for her. He wanted to cry for and Winnie’s owner, and the sweet, awkward teenager who had gifted him a muffin, and all the powerless muggles in the world who had been victimized by the likes of his ancestors.

“I’m so sorry,” he said brokenly.

She looked up at him, startled. “Oh, hon. You’ve got nothing to be saying that for.”

But she didn’t know. Mindy and her baby and Winnie’s poor, dead owner were entirely unaware of life he had lived, of the things he had done as a stupid boy that had brought him to this point. She didn’t know how Potter had saved him in spite of it all.

“Harry neither,” he said.

She frowned at him, “What do you mean, love?”

Draco shook his head, but stopped when the roomy immediately twirled in response. He didn’t want to lose focus right now. It was important.

“Harry doesn’t beat me,” he stated calmly, direct and willing her to believe it this time. Harry didn’t deserve her suspicion, or anyone else’.

Mindy sighed again, sounding a little tearful, “That’s what we all say at first,”

“It wasss…. Father,” he admitted soberly, morphine be damned, “Not thisss time. This,” he patted his bandaged face, “was a friend. Of his. Father, I mean,”

Maybe it was the Morphine making the words come so easily. Maybe he was just too tired to keep pretending it was ever anything else. It didn’t really matter. He said it, aloud and to another person’s ears, and it was the truth. It was a grossly oversimplified version, yes, but it was the truth.

“The thing,” he said brokenly, turning serious eyes on her, “Whatever you see in me…” he sighed, and maybe there was a child’s heartbreak in the sound, “It’s father’s doing,”

Mindy stared at him, eyes big and round, in silent anticipation. He didn’t rush, didn’t fight the medication’s influence to get the words out. He knew she was trying to give him the space to speak at his own pace. He figured she knew from experience.

“He hates me,” he continued, that single statement coming out unfairly clear and crisp. “Hates a lot. Me. Harry. You.”

Mindy’s eyes were glassy, “Sounds like a douche bag,”

Draco nodded gravely, not exactly familiar with the phrase. “Yeah,” he said, because he was familiar enough with her tone. Then he smiled and admitted another closely held truth, “Harry saved me. Mindy,”

He reached out and touched her cheek, gentle and sympathetic just like when she first met him.

“Mindy, he _saved_ me.”

He thought she finally believed him.

~!~

After hanging up on the insufferable muggle woman who was keeping Draco from him, Harry had begrudging given into her demands at Hermione’s urging. Despite his impatience to get to Draco and delegating tasks, it took him nearly an hour and a half to get to the hospital.

With a brand new phone and equally unused trainers in hand, Harry apparated around the corner from Burford General Hospital. Ron and Neville met him across the street from the ER entrance, where they had been waiting and standing guard practically from the moment the muggle had given them the name of the place. None of them had wanted to take any chance of someone else catching up to Draco first.

Which was a good thing.

“We saw Kingsley and Prewitt,” Ron said instead of welcoming him.

Harry tensed and palmed his wand. “Anyone else from the Ministry?”

“No,” Neville interjected, “I made sure Kingsley saw me here. He sent his team on a good little detour, but who knows how long that’ll last. They’ll search the hospital eventually,”

“Any Death Eaters?”

“None so far,”

“Hermione found a car in town,” Ron added, “She can be here in five minutes, we just need to hail her down once we have him,”

Harry had never been more grateful for Hermione’s teenage insistence on learning to drive. He may not have understood it it years ago, but back then he also hadn’t anticipated needing to transport someone who was virtually incapable of doing so magically, and was injured on top of that.

“Alright, let’s do this,”

Neville and Ron following his lead, Harry cast a quick and effective concealment charm and booked it across the street. They made it inside without anyone paying them any heed.

And abruptly stalled out.

“Okay,” Ron said calmly. “Now what. It’s not like a tracking charm will work on him.”

“Dammit,” Harry groaned.

“Didn’t think this part through, did you,” Neville seemed unsurprised.

“Just...stay close,”

With growing irritation, Harry made his way to the receiving desk. The muggles barely noticed as he rounded the desk and peered over the intake nurse’ shoulder, their eyes simply skipping over him. He wasn’t invisible, just utterly uninteresting to the standard muggle’s gaze. He was squinting down at the list of room numbers and names, wondering if Draco would have thought to use a false name, when the matter was settled without such hassle.

Amid the typical hospital noise, an unexpected sound came from down the hall.

“Yap! Yap!”

Harry raised his head to catch Ron’s eye, but his friend was busy trading incredulous looks with Neville.

“Yap!”

Ron finally looked at Harry, stifling a smirk as he said, “so… about that ‘pup’?”

“Yap! Yap!”

Harry ignored the other two wizards as he wordlessly abandoned the intake list and followed after the high pitched cries of an undoubtedly small puppy. It led him straight to Draco.

“Draco?” Harry said, wide eyed as he took in the Conduit.

Draco was stretched out on top of the hospital sheets, wearing the red and blue sweater Molly had knitted him for Christmas years ago. A large handful of fluff was pacing over his middle as it kept changing it’s mind which hand it wanted to knaw on, shedding pale fur on the red knitting. An IV line was connected to his hand, a steady drip of clear fluid going into him. His shoes were missing, replaced with bandages. A similarly alarming gauze pad was tapped over the left side of Draco’s face.

A very drowsy faced Draco, in fact.

Draco may no longer be a wizard, but he also was not a muggle. The concealment charm worked on him the same as most every other magic-- that is, not at all. So as Harry stood in the doorway staring at his laid-up Conduit, said Conduit stared back at him with blurry, drooping eyes.

But his eyes focused well enough, and a beautific, absolutely dopey smile spread across his pale face.

“Harry?” Draco asked with a relief that made Harry feel like an ass all over again.

“Holy shit,” Ron chortled, “Is he drugged?”

“What’s that, hon?” The sound of the unknown muggle’s voice tore Harry’s attention from Draco.

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. A full-figured young mother bouncing an infant on her knee somehow wasn’t it. She was looking from Draco’s happy face to the doorway and back with a furrowed brow, the magic working repeatedly to make her dismiss Harry and his friends each time she looked away. It wasn’t a fool proof spell, though, and she’d see through it in any moment.

Not that Harry was going to give her the chance.

He didn’t even feel bad as he stunned her, making sure the baby was securely tucked into it’s sling.

Neville tisked at him as Ron laughed out right.

“Alright, Draco. Let’s go,”

He went to Draco’s side, fully intending to carry him out of the hospital if he had to, but as Neville had said, Harry clearly hadn’t thought this through. The IV pinned into Draco’s hand was far more intimidatingly up close, as were the bandages and the smell of whatever soap and treatment the ER doctor had given him.

Harry deflated, fully aware that if he fucked this up he could very well injure Draco worse. Draco. Who he couldn’t help with a quick _Episkey_. Who probably needed the hospital he’d ended up in.

“Fuck,” He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Not to interrupt whatever freak out you’re rocking, mate,” Ron nudged him pointedly, “But the Ministry could be back in the area at literally any moment,”

“I know,” Harry groaned.

“Mindy?” Draco whined, frowning toward the sleeping muggle woman in the corner with an absolutely adorable tilt of his head.

The little dog seemed to notice the wizards in the room then. It turned to Harry and growled. It looked ridiculous.

“Finite Incantatum,” Harry grumbled, waving his wand at himself.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Neville asked, alarmed.

“We need a healer’s help. Specifically a muggle healer,” Harry indicated the IV and Draco’s bandaged feet pointedly. Then he jabbed his wand toward the muggle “Finite Incantatum. Mindy, is it?”

“Mindy!” Draco sighed the name happily, grinning at her as his head flopped back against his pillow.

The woman jumped out of her chair, clutching her baby to her chest as she stared wildly at Harry. “What the fuck?!”

“Language, mama bear,” Draco scolded her gently.

“This is fantastic,” Neville grinned at Draco, still entirely beyond the notice of the startled muggle.

“Who the fuck are you?” She demanded, impressing the three wizard by how quickly she stepped in front of Draco.

“Oh, Mindy! Mindy!” Draco poked her in the side two, three times. “That’s Harry. Remember Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry crossed his arms and glared, “Remember me?”

Draco leaned forward to pear around Mindy’s hip at him, making the little dog whine in complaint at being squished. “I told her ‘bout you, Harry,”

“Has he been using his first name often lately?” Neville asked Ron conversationally.

“Nope,” Ron said with obvious amusement.

“You’re the boyfriend?” Mindy asked, immediately less defensive and more… dismissive? Yes, she was looking him up and down with an air of distinctly unimpressed derision. Dismissive suited her attitude well enough.

Behind her, Draco snickered like a school boy. “ _Boyfriend_ ,” he mocked, shaking his head no and flopping back on the bed dizzily. “No, no. Harry’s my _master_ ,”

Literally everyone’s eyes went wide at that.

“Merlin’s sagging bollocks,” Ron whispered.

“ _Master_?” Mindy screeched in disgust.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Harry insisted.

“I can’t believe Hermione’s missing this,”

“Not helping, Ronald,” Harry gritted.

“Who the fuck is Ronald!?” Mindy demanded with increasing alarm.

“He’s Ron!” Draco sing-songed unhelpfully as he waved at the red head.

Ron waved back.

“Mindy!” Harry whisper-shouted, heatedly enough to snap both the muggle _and_ Draco to attention. He bit back his pride and kept his priorities in line, “I appreciate everything you’ve done so far, but Draco is in _danger_ ,” he stressed the word, “I need to get him out of here. Will you help me find his Doctor or not?”

Mindy’s righteous outrage flickered uncertainly as she glanced between him and Draco.

For his part, Draco’s grey eyes got impossibly large and imploring as he excitedly stage-whispered: “See? Mindy, _see_? I told you. He saves me. It’s a thing.”

“That’s adorable,” Neville told a nodding Ron.

Mindy looked back at Harry inquiringly.

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” Harry said honestly, “All I know is that the people who took him from me are somewhere near by, and I can’t let them take him away again.”

Draco chose that exact moment to lift the puppy from his lap and hold it near Mindy’s shoulder. The puppy whined beseechingly and licked her ear.

Inexplicably, it worked.

Mindy sighed and her shoulders relaxed. “Fine, but for what it’s worth: he can do so much better.”

“Yay!” Draco cheered gently as he dropped back to bed and gave the puppy a victory-cuddle. “Hear that, Winnie? We’re going home!”

In the corner, safely shrouded in magic, Ron and Neville lost it and burst out laughing.


	16. Home Sweet Home. Sort Of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for some pretty serious Dub-Con in this chapter, though not really. Sort of. Kind of. Magic, guys, it's a thing.   
> That said, try to think kindly of Harry. He really is doing the best he can. ;)

If Harry never had to see Mindy Finstock ever again, it would be too soon. As Harry and Hermione loaded the Conduit into the rental car, the muggle promised she’d have him arrested for kidnapping, battery and suspicion of abuse if Draco didn’t keep in contact with her moving forward.

Harry was glad to see her shrinking in the rearview mirror.

He only wished they’d left the furball with her.

“Aw!” Draco cooed as ‘Winnie’ slobbered all over Harry’s glasses, “she likes you!”

“Aw!” Hermione mimicked, shooting Harry a nasty little grin via the rearview mirror as she drove. “Harry. You guys have a _puppy_!”

Harry shoved the thing back into Draco’s arms as gently as he could while biting out an unenthused “yay.” He quickly regretted climbing to the back seat with Draco. He was already having visions of being frequently cock blocked by the overly attached mutt.

Or rather…. He _almost_ regretted it. In all honesty, Harry wasn’t sure he could move far from Draco even if he wanted to. He was still shaken from the near-miss, first with Runcorn and then with Kingsely’s team of Aurors. He’d come so close to losing the blonde, and he was none too keen on risking any degree of separation again. As it was, he kept one hand on Draco’s thigh the entire drive to the new safe house, even when the damn dog kept trampling his fingers.

He simply had to keep touching Draco. He _had_ to.

He also detested the way Mindy fucking Finstock had managed to delay their reunion as if she had any right. Draco was _his_ , and the possessiveness of that conviction, the anger he felt, unfairly trained on Mindy as it was, was enough to put his adolescent jealousy over Ginny to shame.

The need to touch didn’t ease all the way to the safe house, several hours’ drive from the hospital.

Draco had long since fallen asleep, his head on Harry’s shoulder. By the time Hermione pulled into the drive of the quaint one-story muggle home, Harry had managed to shoo Winnie over to the far side of backseat while rubbing his hands over as much of the blond as he could reach. He told himself he wasn’t being creepy about it; there was no inappropriate fondling, and every touched seemed to be a comfort to the Conduit if the way he sighed and leaned into it was any indication. Still. He couldn’t seem to stop touching him.

And yes, he wanted the inappropriate fondling too.

“...Harry?”

Harry’s eyes popped open at the sound of Hermione’s enquiring voice. He must had dozed a little himself--

“Really? Harry, _really_?”

He blinked, uncomprehending, at Hermione as she gave him an unimpressed glare over her shoulder from the front seat. Her eyes darted down pointedly.

“Wha-- shit,” he hissed.

As if burned, Harry yanked his fingers out from where they’d tucked themselves into the front of Draco’s trousers, over the so-soft, intimate flesh right between the cut of his hip bones.

“Er… I didn’t mean to do that,” he added lamely.

Hermione snorted as she turned around to get out of the car. “Whatever. I’ll get the dog, you get the boy. Oh, and Harry?”

“… Yeah?”

“Do try to keep in mind that he is both injured and heavily medicated. At least for this evening,”

Harry couldn’t presently remember a time he’d been more embarrassed and ashamed in his life. At the same time, a dark little corner of his mind bristled and insisted that of course he wouldn’t have taken advantage, Draco was his Conduit and he’d surely be thrilled to have Harry touching him in any and every way, Harry just knew it---

And really, that sort of thinking aught to make him feel sick. Shouldn’t it.

“Hey, Mione?” he asked hesitantly as he carried Draco into the house.

Hermione must have heard something in his tone. She responded with a frown, “What is it?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve come across any mention of a Conduit’s Binding affecting the Master,” he attempted a faux-casually shrug, despite Draco’s weight interfering, “like, mentally? Or something,”

Hermione’s frown deepened, “In what way?”

“Well...” Harry said slowly, searching for words.

“About damn time-- oops,” Ron hissed as he caught sight of Draco, then continued in a whisper, “Nev and I were about to start fretting you’d been caught by the Aurors afterall,”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “I did warn you it’d take a while to get here without magic,”

“It was necessary,” Harry reminded them, cutting off whatever refute Ron was opening his mouth to make. He heaved Draco more securely against him and stepped toward the hall, “Which room can I put him in?”

Ron motioned, “This way. Nev conjured a pretty decent replica of your bed. We figured you’d want to stay with him tonight at least,”

Harry stalled half way down the hall, “Thanks, but… I don’t think that’d the best idea right now,”

Hermione pressed up agaisnt the back of his arm, her cheek on his shoulder reassuringly, “I get it, Harry. Relax. The Bond was threatened, and that after a good amount of absence. The magic was bound to have some sort of effect to try and recover.”

Harry sighed. He was tired, and stressed, and maybe desperate for an explanation that would make him feel like less of a perv. A part of him was nearly certain Hermione wouldn’t be so flippant if she knew that some part of him had fully intended to fuck the blond into the nearest mattress, injures and unconsciousness be damned, but in that moment her words were just enough reassurance for him to push that terrifying nonsense off for tomorrow. It released the ball of tension in his gut enough that he made it down the hall into the bedroom, confident he didn’t need to tackle the issue right this moment.

Right now, he needed to get Draco in a bed. Because yes, Draco…. Draco needed rest. Priorities.

“Huh. He looks so… peaceful,” Ron murmured as Harry tucked the blankets around Draco’s sides, “Hard to tell he’s such a sarcastic bugger when he looks all… I dunno. Sweet,”

Harry stood next to his friend, considering that. He stared at Draco’s restful face and the only word it inspired was _mine_.

Better safe than sorry, he thought, and followed Ron out of the room.

~!~

Draco woke in complete darkness, in an unfamiliar, near barren room, and in pain. It wasn’t a lot of pain, but enough discomfort to keep him from falling back to sleep.

“Harry!?” he cried, sitting up as adrenaline shot through him like a gulp of Pepper Up potion.

He was alone. He was alone in the dark, with visions from his dreams bleeding into his waking sight. Runcorn. Lucius. The dead muggle. Voldemort, in all his revolting glory, as he dangled baby Westley over Winnie’s lifeless body--

“Harry!? HARRY!?”

The door burst open. Draco shrank back, blinking rapidly, as light from the hallway nearly blinded him.

“Draco?”

The mattress bounced as Harry come to his side. Big, wonderfully familiar hands took hold of him, on his shoulder, cupping his face. Without time for his eyes to adjust to the light, Draco threw himself forward into that well-known chest and _clung_.

This was Harry. His Master. His sanctuary. His Harry.

“Where’s the Death Eaters!?” Ron’s voice bellowed, then waned, “What happened?”

He was safe. Harry would keep him safe.

“I heard screaming…?” Hermione’s voice sounded half-sleep and confused.

Draco’s heart was about to beat out of his chest and it Would. Not. Stop. He panted wetly into Harry’s shirt and trembled.

He told himself he just needed to stay close to Harry. If he was with him, no one would touch him. All the bad things only happened when he was away from his Master. Harry would protect him.

“Is… is he alright?”

“I… I think he just had a bad dream...”

Draco wanted to snip at them, to remind them that he wasn’t a child who needed to be soothed back to sleep, but if the shoe fits…

Harry’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back to get a look at his face. Shaken and confused, Draco allowed the distance to grow between them and rocked back enough to see the concern etched deep onto Harry’s face. Then Draco lost his damn mind.

He threw himself at Harry. Literally.

His arms went around that thick, stubbly neck. He hopped into Harry’s lap, the bed clothes tangling in his legs as he strove to wrap them around a trim waist. The pain in his abused feet and wrenched shoulder brought tears to his eyes, but he ignored it. He moved impossibly fast in his desperation, and similarly wasn’t even aware of himself speaking until he found himself coiled tightly around the wizard and trying, impossibly, trying so hard to get even closer. As if he could crawl straight inside Harry’s skin and hide there for the rest of eternity.

“Hold me. Hold me. Keep me. Love me. Please, Harry. Please. Just hold me,”

“What the fuck?” Ron asked, alarmed.

“… Maybe,” Hermione said slowly, “We should give them some space. Harry?”

“Just go,” Harry said, voice gruff with emotions Draco was too addled to have a hope at interpreting.

“You’re sure you’ve got this?”

“Yeah. Go on. I think I know what he needs. _Accio_ ,”

The light shrank and as the door clicked shut something small and rattling zipped into Harry’s palm.

“Please, Harry,” Draco pleaded, his eyes positively burning as they leaked.

“I know, I know,” One hand dragged firmly down his back as something popped and rattled, “Why don’t you take one the pills the doctor gave you, then we’ll figure it out.”

“Please, I just need...”

“I’ve got you, Draco,” As if to prove this point, Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist and squeezed. He didn’t let up on the pressure, and Draco felt something inside him go a little quieter. “Shh. Alright. It’s alright. Open your mouth now for me. Yeah, that’s it, baby. Good,”

Draco was obeying before he could even think. Then something chalky and small landed on his tongue and Draco snapped his mouth shut reflexively.

“Swallow it,”

And Draco did, because Harry, he knew, wouldn’t hurt him. Harry only ever helped him. Saved him. He was his Master, and Draco was beyond fortunate to have such a deserving Master.

Another memory-tinged-with-vision flickered through his mind: the Dark Lord looming over his naked body, bound with chains to a cold stone slab as Lucius’ voice chanted in the background.

Merlin and Morgana, but he was so lucky.

And terrified. So, so terrified.

“Draco,” Harry said his name firmly, voice quiet but stern.

He would rather be dead. Runcorn had nearly had him, put him back in that place, with those people, far away from Harry and anything and everything good. He would have killed himself. He would have found a way if Harry hadn’t--

“Conduit,” his Master commanded.

Something not-quite-magic tensed deep in Draco’s gut in response. He went still, only then aware of how he’d been shaking and squirming, fighting to get closer than physically possible. He was still shaking, but even that eased as frantic spiral of his thoughts ground to a halt. Some instinct, the non-magic that was nonetheless a power and a part of him, shivered expectantly.

Draco was struck dumb, well and truly shocked out of his panic. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was… unexpected. He didn’t know quite what it was. He thought it was probably good.

He waited for Harry to speak, very nearly hanging on his Master’s every word.

He didn’t know what was happening, but it was reprieve from the terror and panic. He wanted to lose himself in it and between one heartbeat and the next he became certain Harry could help him do just that.

Inexplicably, Harry seemed to know.

“We’re going to wait and give the medication a minute to work,” Harry said slowly, decisively.

It was a tone similar to how Draco had heard him speak to Ron and Hermione during serious war-related talks on occasion, and yet different. Because now he was talking to _Draco_ , and there was an undercurrent of something powerful between them that was unique and unexplored.

“And you are going to tell me the moment something hurts, understand?”

Draco answered with a whimper, relying on instinct more than thought, “Yes, Master.”

Then it was like his most heated dreams come to life.

Harry pinned him to the bed with a hand on the base of his throat. He kept him there as he petted him, tugging his tshirt up to rub over Draco’s abs, pushing the hem of his brief’s lower so he could play with the hallows of Draco’s hips. Harry dragged his fingers up and down the inside of his forearms, over his pulse points, and then the same on his inner thighs. He touched him lazily, gently, and Draco felt himself supremely comforted by the reassurance as the throbbing in his feet, the bruising on his face and shoulder finally began to fade.

He was hard. Harry soothed away the adrenaline along with all thoughts of fear, and it left him hard and wanting. He wanted Harry inside him. He ached for it every bit as strongly as he’d needed to smother himself in Harry’s presence mere minutes, hours, days earlier.

But he didn’t act on it. He let the desire simmer as he did what his Master wished. He waited.

Steadily, the pain disappeared. It disappeared and tried to sweep him away with it, but Draco wanted so badly, too badly, to let the floating sensation tip him into sleep.

He whined, limbs twitching.

“Shh,” Harry whispered. His voice had gone dark and lovely, maybe the smallest bit breathless. “It’s okay. I’ve got you,”

Draco whined again, canting his hips. “Please, Master,”

He heard Harry draw a sharp breath. The fingers dancing along his happy-trail faltered.

That mysterious, deep-seated not-quite magic pulsed again, and Draco spread his legs wider. “Please.”

Harry’s fingertips shallowly dipped beneath his waistband, right over the harsh jut of his hip. “Okay, Draco. I’ll… I’m going to just… keep touching you,”

Draco rolled his hips again.

Harry’s fingers pressed a little firmer, so, so low on the inside of his hip.

Draco whined. He moved to plant his feet on the bed so he could have leverage--

“No.” Harry’s tone brokered no argument and Draco went instantly still. “Don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself,”

Draco could only whimper, “Master, please...”

“I know,” and with a whispered incantation, Draco’s plain muggle shirt and briefs disappeared.

That new, wonderful part of himself tightened with anticipation. It felt like victory. Even before Harry touched him between his happily parted thighs.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, so quiet Draco almost didn’t hear. “You need this, don’t you.”

Draco moaned as his balls were rolled between deft fingers. His thighs trembled with excitement. His cock twitched and leaked as if it were encouraging Harry to keep going.

“I am _so_ going to hell for this…”

Harry said something else, plenty else, but Draco didn’t manage to catch it. The pill wasn’t nearly as intoxicating as Morphine, and it was the barest of distractions from the incessant, achy, yearning thing that had blossomed inside of him where his magic once resided. His magic now was Harry’s, though, Draco knew that, and it didn’t imbibe his soul and body like it had when he’d been a wizard.

The realization hit him just as his body welcomed Harry’s cock inside like it belonged there.

Of course. He was a Conduit. Harry’s Conduit.

He wasn’t magic. Not anymore. He was _of_ magic.

He was of _Harry’s_ magic.

He couldn’t have put into words just then what that meant, exactly, but he knew just the same. When he came on Harry’s cock and washed them both in the raw beauty of their bond, Dr _aco knew_. It was similar to the utter conviction that when he fell asleep with Harry still fucking into him almost brutally, there would be no more nightmares. Harry would keep them all away, he was sure of it.

And, miraculously… he was right.


	17. Harry Sees the Light. In a fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves, guys: some of you might find this chapter disagreeable for dub-con reasons.   
> Essentially, Harry finally starts to explore his role in his Bond to Draco, not entirely unlike how Draco did in chapter 12. Only Harry's exploration/realization is admittedly a lot darker, due to the power dynamic I'm playing with using the Master-Conduit concept.   
> Hope you guys like it.   
> Also, I have NEVER worked so much plot into a sex scene before. Literally, never. I'm rather proud of myself.

  
  


Ron and Hermione wouldn’t meet his eye the next day.

Harry sat down at the island counter across from Hermione and told himself she was simply hyperfocused on the large, ancient-looking text spread out in front of her. The hard clench of her jaw and her noncommital hum in place of her usual morning greeting was far from reassuring.

For a long, awkward moment, the only sound was the trickle of water and tap of a spoon as Ron put more attention than strictly warranted on making tea.

“So...” Ron said slowly, “How’s Draco?”

Hermione went so tense, her stillness took on a new weight. Her eyes remained trained on her book. Harry noticed her cheeks pinking.

Harry had woken up feeling like an absolute cad. Draco had woken up twice more in the night, still dazed from sleep and medication, and Harry hadn’t been able to say no to him. He hadn’t wanted to. It was startlingly easier each time to ignore the tiny voice of his concience telling him he was taking advantage.

But now he was awake, and in the light of day there was nothing but shame.

He hid his hands in his face and struggled to find words. The knot in his gut quacked as he wondered what his friends, the people who’s opinions he held highest, must think of him.

“Harry,” Hermione said calmly, “About last night...”

“You’ve got to remember a silencing charm, mate,” Ron spat out, like the words had been burning a hole in his throat.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed readily.

Harry gave a humorless laugh. “ _That’s_ what you want to comment on right now? Really?”

He lifted his head to see them staring at him, Hermione with concern and a fair bit of embarassment, Ron with good humor and bafflement. It was… not what he’d been expecting.

The embarassed blush on Hermione’s cheeks washed out as she caught on to his train of thought. She looked stricken and sympathetic as she folded her arms and leaned forward onto them, saying: “Harry, I told you the Conduit Bond was likely to have a reaction to everything going on. You know you haven’t done anything wrong, right?”

Harry stared at her, “You’re kidding right? Did you miss the part where he was drugged and half asleep--?”

“Did you miss the part where he’s a magical creature whose entire existance thrives on sex,” Hermione countered, not even having the decency to pose it as a question. “We’ve talked about this, Harry. Many times. The standards for consent are wildly different when it comes to Conduits--”

“And the moment we accept that is the moment we start validating the sort of attitudes the Ministry’s got--”

“No. It’s not the same.” Hermione reached across the table and grabbed his shoulder firmly, “You need to stop looking at this as a black-or-white matter. You can’t be concerned about how the Ministry or the Order view Draco if it’s going to stop you from doing what’s best for both of you, but especially him. You’re not two wizards in a romantic relationship. You’re a Conduit and his Master. Nothing less.”

Immediately, he flashed back to Draco’s delirious mumbles throughout the night. _Love me. I love you. Love me. Harry, please, just love me_.

And, Hermione, well… She had a point. Even if it did put a bad taste in his mouth.

~!~

The following two weeks aught to have been miserable for Draco. He was all but laid up with his injured feet, strained shoulder and the rather spectacular bruising on his face (“it looks worse than it is, really now, Potter!”). The muggle healers had assured them there would be no permanent damage to his feet, despite initial concerns about nerve damage, provided Draco kept his weight off them as much as possible. Potter and Weasley had apparently interpreted this as instruction to carry Draco from room to room at the slightest suggestion that the wheel chair (transfigured by Hermione) might prove inconvenient, and that was the least of their many mother-henning ways as Draco recovered sans magical aid. The two of them damn near dotting on him, making a far bigger deal of it at times than even Draco’s melodramatic tendancies.

It made Draco think back on their third year at Hogwarts and a particular hippogriff incident. The irony was not lost on him, even if it was on the other two men in the house.

Perhaps that was part of the reason Draco was not, in all actuality, miserable.

Certainly, his feet hurt for the first few days, then throbbed, then itched to high heaven. And yes, no one was more alarmed by the marring of his face than himself.

But he was being waited on hand-and-foot unlike anything he’d ever experienced as the Malfoy Heir. Now, he wasn’t simply spoiled, he was shown care and open affection. His own mother wouldn’t have brought herself to clean and bandage his magically-resistant wounds with her own hands. She had cared for him, he was sure, but she never would have dared being so demonstrative.

Not like little Winnie, with her constant cuddling and endearing whimpers as she nuzzled him.

Not like Weasley, with his constant need to push fresh cups of tea into Draco’s hand.

Not like Granger, with the way she chatted with him as she rewrapped his bandages because “Harry or Ronald made a mess of it,” again.

And certainly not like Potter. Potter, his Master, with his magic and his words and his touches. With his strong hands and deep chuckles that soothed Draco to sleep every night. With his concerned, almost offended scowl every time his fingers gently smoothed over the purple-and-blue of Draco’s cheek. Which was often.

Potter touched him all the time now. Even when the others were around. Gripping the nape of his neck. An arm across his shoulders. A wonderfully heavy hand on his thigh, or encasing his wrist for minutes at a time. The way he’d occasionally set Draco on his lap rather than his own seat, just to keep him close.

No. Draco was not miserable. He was damn near euphoric.

He couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend his recovery. Everything was so peaceful, surprisingly so with Granger and Weasley in full-time residence in an unfamiliar, sparsely furnished muggle house. Draco found himself wishing they could stay like this always.

Then he walked in on a cold reminder that they were at war.

It was early in the morning, before sunrise, and Draco had woken, hungry and alone in bed. By this point, he could walk from room to room with a little discomfort using the padded slippers Hermione had bought him. Since Harry was not a present distraction keeping him abed, Draco slipped the footwear on and made his way toward the kitchen with careful, tender steps.

His steps were quiet merely as a side effect. They didn’t heard him coming.

But he heard them.

“--it’s got to be there, at Hogwarts. If not the Ravenclaw tower, then the Room.” Granger’s voice was hard and cold in a way Draco barely recognized.

“Yeah,” Weasley agreed gravely, and Draco stilled as all sleepiness fled. “Then it’s just the snake to deal with. Well. The literal one _and_ the Dark Lord one,”

“Exactly. Four down. Three to go.”

He realized he’d become used to Granger and Weasley. They were familiar to him, like close friends, perhaps a certain definition of family, and he was comfortable with the way they spoke with him. Or rather, he had grown comfortable with the warmth and easy flow of their voices around him.

There was none of that now, though. Draco found it… unsettling.

Even more so when Potter spoke in similarly chilling, stern tones.

“We can give Cho and Luna another week. If they can’t find the diadem by then, I’ll go to Hogwarts myself.”

“Risky,” Weasley murmured, muffled like his hand was rubbing over his mouth. He’d taken to doing that, Draco knew, as the scruff of his beard grew out over the past weeks. “The Death Eaters are monitoring every access point to the castle grounds, and McGonagall says the Ministry’s only imposing more and more the longer we’re unaccounted for. And I hate to say it, but I think at this point plenty of the Order might turn us in if they spot us.”

“I agree,” Granger said, words clipped, “We can’t rely on the Order to have our backs. Too many of them have fallen for Moody’s rhetoric that Draco’s a resource they aught to be securing, and we’re their only lead to him at this point.”

“Which is why we won’t risk being recognized,” Potter stated it like a fact, not a suggestion, and Draco felt his heart sink as he continued, “You guys will stay behind with Draco. I’ll go alone under the invisibility cloak,”

“The cloak’s not infalliable,” Weasley reminded him, and Draco hated how casually he said it, like he knew the words wouldn’t matter.

And they didn’t.

“No, but it’s enough to fully mask a single person, and I have plenty of practice using it effectively.”

“You won’t be able to apparate into Hogsmeade without setting off alarms,”

“Firenze still owes me a favor. He should have an access point I can use to apparate into the forest and I can walk from there.”

The exchange was all so matter-of-fact. Practical. Never before had Draco appreciated how much his schoolyard rivals had grown up from the hot-tempered youths they had once been. While Draco had cowered and become weak and lesser in the ensuing years of war, they had become hardened and capable.

Draco rubbed his wrist where Potter had held him not hours ago, pinning him to their bed and making him moan at the brute show of strength. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before now that Potter must have gotten then strength from somewhere. Somehow.

“The moment you touch that diadem, he’ll know,” Granger interjected. “He knows what you’re about now. He’s sensitive to the remaining pieces.”

“You’ll have to get it out quick--”

“No,” Potter cut Weasley off, “I’ll destroy it there. In the Room of Requirement. That’s why it has to be me.”

Draco could hear the frown in Granger’s voice, “The longer you’re in the castle, the more likely the Ministry will catch you. Luna and Cho haven’t been able to find it in weeks, Harry. How can you expect to be any quicker?”

There was a tense silence. Draco leaned against the wall, ignoring the growing ache in the soles of his feet, and waited just as expectantly.

“Draco,” Potter sighed, as if that was all the answer needed. “If he can’t make me capable of summoning it across the room, he can help me burn everything else to ash. The diadem will be one of the only things left standing, if not _the_ _only_ thing.”

“Do you mean… Fiendfire?” Granger said haltingly.

“Wait a minute,” Weasley said excitedly, “Fiendfire! That’d get rid of a Horcrux too, wouldn’t it? Why don’t we just tell Luna to unleash the curse? She could do it tonight!”

Draco heard a telling smack, doubtless Granger whacking Weasley on his shoulder, then she spoke with feigned patience, “Because, Ronald, Fiendfire is a seriously dark curse for good reason. It’s next to impossible to contain, and I don’t think anyone’s ready to burn all of Hogwarts and her students to the ground just yet,”

“...Oh. Yeah, probably not.”

“… I could do it.”

“Come again?” Granger sounded alarmed.

“I could do it,” Potter repeated. “Not burn down Hogwarts, but the other part. The next to impossible part.”

“Huh?” Weasley said uncomprehendingly.

“You think you can _contain_ Fiendfire?” she said dubiously, and for a moment Draco recognized the condescending know-it-all Granger used to be.

“Yeah,” Potter affirmed, utterly confident. “Draco can help me do it,”

Out in the hall, Draco wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.

~!~

Harry hadn’t been lying when he said he could contain the Fiendfire with Draco help. He just hadn’t quite been voicing the full truth of the matter.

He knew they could do it.

He just didn’t quite know how to make it reliable.

He remembered how easy it had been to lift so much of the beach from the earth’s surface right after the Gringotts debacle. He remembered the unfathomable power, the sense of Draco’s presence right at his side.

Harry had known true power then, of a kind that no Conduit Master or power-hungry Dark Lord had ever conceivably obtained before. It hadn’t been just a boost of strength, a greater impact of his spells. It had raw, unending magic, and it had been right there at his fingertips, ready and eager to be shaped to his will. It had been unlike anything Harry had felt before, before Binding Draco and since.

It had been only momentary, and such a surprise that he hadn’t time to figure out what to do with it. It had been just enough for Harry to know it was possible.

He’d thought about it often ever since, and kept coming back to one all-important fact: in that moment, he had been capable of anything.

He hadn’t told anyone, not Ron or Hermione, not Draco, but he knew what it was. The power, the reason he’d ended up Draco’s Master so easily. It was so obvious after that day on the beach.

This was what Tom Riddle feared. Draco. Not Harry, but Draco and all the incredible magic his beautiful body was capable of channeling. This was the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.

And Harry was the only one who could use it.

But he had the suspicion that Hermione was right. He needed to get over himself and his hangups concerning Conduit magic if he ever hopped to get that kind of power from Draco again. And he needed that magic. The world depended on it.

He return to bed with such thoughts front and foremost in his mind, just as the sky began to lighten.

He found Draco awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress and staring at his hands in his lap. The side of his face was a mottled display of greens, yellows and greys, the swelling around the eye and cheek long gone. The sight of the injury still made Harry’s stomach churn with anger and sorrow.

He could figure out how to unlock the wealth of the Conduit magic later. He’d give Cho and Luna one more week, and in that time he’d figure out how to use Draco like the Conduit he was. Properly. He could do it later.

Not tonight.

“Been awake long?” Harry asked softly as he neared the bed.

Draco shook his head distractedly, eyes still lowered to his hands in thought. “Not long. Just restless, I suppose.”

Harry felt a fair amount of relief as he heard that, then ran with it. There wasn’t a concious thought to do it, but Harry found himself reaching out just the same, till his hands were carding through silken blonde hair and tilting that pretty, almost androgynous face up to meet his own. He kissed him softly at first, lips and tongue gentle and entreating.

Draco, as always, responded immediately. His lips parted and he accepted Harry’s tongue inside with a quiet, pleased sigh. His shoulders shifted back, relaxing as he trusted the weight of his head to Harry’s hands.

Harry broke the kiss and with one hand still tangled in hair, he guided Draco backward till he lay flat on the bed.

Draco’s legs parted for him, and in the next moment Harry had banished their night clothes with nothing more than the thought. Draco, naked and lovely and spread out just for him, shivered. His cock was soft.

Harry dropped to the floor and rubbed his hands up and down Draco’s perfect thighs. He was about to ask Draco if he didn’t want this, but then he remembered how Draco had kissed back, shortly followed by Hermione’s semi-regular reminders that Draco was, in fact, a Conduit with a particular relationship with sex.

So Harry didn’t ask. He considered the kiss, how Draco had spread his legs, and abruptly decided he would just have to trust Draco to stop him if he didn’t want it.

He gripped Draco’s legs just above the knees and yanked, throwing the limbs over his shoulders and bringing Draco’s ass right to the edge of the bed. Then he buried his face between his legs, nose nudging his balls and hot breath on his taint.

Draco made a low, strangled sort of sound. His hips bucked excitedly.

Harry let go of his legs and wrapped his arms around Draco, his hands splayed over a slender stomach and a sharp hip. He squeezed till Draco squeaked, then pressed down to keep him there.

By the time he started licking, Draco’s cock had caught up. The erection full and blushing and, when Harry’s tongue dipped lower to jab at his hole, it gave an encouraging few beads of precum. Harry was quick to lap it up.

“Harry,” Draco moaned his name, and it sent a private thrill up his spine. Draco had become shockingly freer about using his given name since the hospital, but the way he’d started saying it during sex was just… “Ah! Haaaarry!”

Well. It did things to him.

Draco opened easily for him. It was unsurprising after all the sex they’d been having recently. Once he’d no longer needed pain medication, Draco couldn’t seem to go longer than a few hours without demanding orgasms, and Harry admittedly jumped at the smallest provocation. As such, Draco hardly needed to be stretched.

Harry paused for only a second. Then he just went for it.

Lubrication spells didn’t interact well with Draco, Harry knew well, so he spat into his hand a couple times and smeared it onto his own dick. Then he jostled Draco’s legs to either side, off his shoulders and shot up.

It was different. No prep and hardly any lube, Draco was tight and he tensed up as Harry pushed inside.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed, already starting to pull out. He wasn’t wet enough--

Draco’s knees clamped around his waist hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “Keep going,” he said breathlessly.

Harry looked down, making sure the blonde was still hard. He was.

“Please,” Draco whined, thighs trembling as they continued to trap Harry where he was clearly wanted.

So Harry snapped his hips forward.

Draco positively _keened_.

It was different. Tighter than it’d been… well, for a while. The slide a little harder, but not like Draco’s body was reluctant; more like it clung to him more than normal on each withdraw and squeezed him harder on every thrust. Draco scratched at his shoulders or fisted the sheets, but he never made the slightest move to push Harry away.

When Harry came, it was with Draco’s magic swirled and bloomed anew around and inside him, and Harry couldn’t help himself as he used the sudden liquid heat to thrust a little easier. It wasn’t altogether pleasant, his cock beyond sensitive, and he couldn’t stand the stimulation for long. When he pulled out, Draco’s hole was wet and smeared with Harry’s load.

And fuck, if the sight didn’t make him wish he had a reinvigorating potion on hand.

Draco was still hard and whimpering. He would have let Harry go again.

He _would_ let Harry go again.

Panting, Harry turned his attention inward to the fresh supply of magic Draco had just given him. He thought aloud, “No time like the present,”

It was later, after all.

As far as Harry knew, there was no spell that could do what a properly brewed aphrodisiac or even a specialized… um, _recovery_ potion could do. But Harry was confident Conduit magic didn’t play by the ordinary rules of magic, his whole plan to handle the diadem horcrux depended on it.

He could test at least part of the theory right now, couldn’t he.

He didn’t need the unfathomable depth of magic he’d need later. This wasn’t Fiendfire. He didn’t need to test _strength_ as much as he needed to test _possibility_.

Could he do _anything_ with Conduit magic? Even the impossible?

“Harry?” Draco whined, shifting his hips attractively.

Harry watched more white fluid dribble from Draco’s twitching hole. Merlin, but he wanted to fuck him again already.

Using magic to revive a spent erection was hardly comparable to containing a major, deadly curse. But he had to start somewhere. Didn’t he.

“Harry, please!”

Harry rubbed Draco’s thighs soothingly. “It’s okay. Draco, it’s okay. I just want to try something. Can I, Draco?”

That fair head was already nodding frantically. “Yes. Yes. Please, Harry,”

Harry did it like he did all his most impressive magic. He didn’t think, he didn’t plan, he went with his instincts. He found the magic solidly labeled “Draco” in his mind and he let it mingle with his intent. He didn’t try to make up a spell. He simply let the magic combine with his will.

“Harry?” Draco cried, losing patience.

“Hush,” Harry palmed the blond’s cock and began stroking, fingers light and frustrating, “Give me a second,”

Draco whined and thrust up into Harry’s hand. Harry watched him, admiring the nice flex of his slender body and the pretty flush to pale skin. He watched Draco’s cock strain and how his hole just kept. On. Leaking.

His own cock ached, exhausted but interested. He reached for the magic _most_ desperately.

Inexplicably, it worked.

“Yes!” Harry wasted no time. He slotted them back together and the first thrust was smooth and wet and perfect.

Draco choked, eyes going wide in surprise.

“That’s it,” Harry whispered heatedly.

The surprise faded quickly from Draco’s face only to be replaced with delight. He tossed his head back and arched, Harry felt him squirm around his cock, against his hips. Merlin, but Draco was a sight.

And he was all Harry’s.

He leaned down, blanketing the blonde till Draco was pinned by the full weight of him, and thrust hard.

Draco gasped and jerked beneath him.

“Take it, take it.” Harry growled against Draco’s jaw as he continued fucking into him.

And that was exactly what it was. Fucking. He drove into Draco with a force and determination that should have been startling. There was no finesse, none of the usual care he took with Draco’s body. Draco’s cock was trapped between them, but otherwise ignored. Harry’s hands balled into fists, filled with bedding that provided a handhold as he threw himself into the sex.

Draco tried to writhe, tried to participate, but even after months of looking after himself properly, he was no match for Harry’s greater bulk. And Harry gave him absolutely no space.

“Take it,” Harry demanded, not recognizing himself (or caring) as he bit Draco’s neck hard enough to bruise.

For his part, the Conduit moaned and gave up the fight spectacularly. He bared his neck further, let his body go lax and accepting Harry’s weight fully. The submission satisfied that dark corner of Harry’s mind, the part that had been celebrating practically since the first moment he’d realized he was going to take this beautiful creature to bed.

That dark, possisive part of him that had always existed, but had grown into something important after he’d made himself the Master to a Conduit.

To his Conduit.

Because that was what this was all about, he realized.

He’d already blown his load once. He didn’t need to come just yet. He just wanted-- no, he _needed_ to keep going. He wanted Draco sore and satisfied and crying and messy and _owned._ Everything that had been happening between them-- every interaction, every touch, every comment, every thought-- since he’d discovered him in that hospital had been leading up to this.

To Harry, the Master, recovering his Conduit. To proving himself to his Conduit.

“Harry! Harry!” Draco gasped desperately, and Harry realized there were nails digging painful grooves into his back. “HarryHarryHarry!”

The magic was alive, thrumming between them fiercely. Harry could feel it coiling like an electric charge preparing to zap him to hell and back.

“Yes! Yes! Harry! Please!”

Because Hermione had been right. They weren’t boyfriends, they weren’t lovers. They were so much more than that.

“Fuck!”

Beneath him, Draco came apart silently. His body went tense, his cock spurted, covering them both with slick. Harry was too busy gnawing more bruises onto his pale throat, but if he’d looked up, he might have caught the way Draco’s eyes rolled into the back of his head just as they began to glaze with a glittering sheen of magic.

And as Draco’s orgasm hit, Harry knew there was an impressive bit of magic rushing through his perfect, lovely, gorgeous, delicious body too. He could almost feel it, taste it, as if Harry had suddenly become privy to the particular way Conduits convene with magic during sex.

Draco’s own pleasure never brought on a surge of magic, strictly speaking a Conduit’s orgasm wasn’t even necessary. It was the Master’s use of the Conduit’s body that summoned the power. And that had already happened, when Harry came and reopened the channel that connected Draco, and Harry through him, to that incredible magical source.

That high was still upon them, barely diminished when Harry used it to get it up again.

He wondered what would happen when he brought it on again so soon. While they were still drowning in the first pulse of magic.

Draco especially. Harry could use magic all the time, even without his Conduit, but Draco was dependent on him to feel any amount of magic. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought Draco might be more sensitive to it.

He wasn’t entirely sure how much he cared.

He slowed the brutal jab of his hips and pushed up so he had a good view of the blonde’s face. He was not disappointed.

“Draco?” Harry wiped the sweaty strands of hair from his Conduit’s forehead.

The beautiful creature was limp and dazed, his knees falling weakly on either side of Harry’s body, panting from the force of his pleasure combined with Harry’s weight having limited his breaths. The entire side of his throat and a good part of the collar bone was blooming in purples and reds. He was sweaty and possibly drooling a little. He looked debauched and sated.

Harry loved it. He wondered if he could keep him like this, delirious with pleasure and magic. Maybe just for a while longer. Just till Harry came again. Maybe once more beyond that. Maybe.

He rolled his hips, deep and slow, and watched as Draco licked his lips with a sweet little whine.

“I’m going to use you up,” Harry told him huskily, not thinking before the words left his mouth. “I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to take it, and keep taking it, till I say it’s enough.”

Draco moaned. One hand rose from the bed to stroke Harry’s bicep lazily.

It was acknowledgment enough, Harry decided.

Then he fucked Draco till he cried.


	18. Er...Growing Pains?

Three days later, and the house, the situation, was nearly unrecognizable.

“No,” Draco moaned, resting his forehead on the cool, perfectly smooth wood of a coffee table that hadn’t existed hours earlier. Winnie whimpered sympathetically from where they’d locked her in the bathroom after the first time she’d tried to comfort him.

“Okay,” Weasley agreed readily, perhaps _too_ readily. “You heard him. We’re done.”

“Shut up, Ron,” Potter and Granger said in unison.

If Draco hadn’t woken so early the other day and overheard them talking, he wondered if he would have realized what, exactly, Potter was doing. Even with the eavesdropping, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He wasn’t thinking clearly at the moment, understandably.

“I can’t,” he insisted, not for the first time. “Harry, please. I can’t,”

“Yes, you can,” Harry insisted, utterly unsympathetic.

Those large, hard hands gripped his shoulders and pulled Draco off the coffee table. He didn’t fight it, it was easier (and a bit thrilling) to just let Potter manhandle him. So he found himself back in Potter’s lap, cradled in strong arms, and practically sitting on Potter’s annoyingly fully-clothed erection.

Petulantly, Draco squirmed.

Potter pinched his thigh. “Knock it off. We’re not done.”

“ _I’m_ done,” Draco griped.

“I second that,” Weasley added, sounding distinctly uncomfortable.

“Oh stop it,” Granger said. She was still rolling her eyes even as she crouched down in front of Draco with her stop watch. “You’re both being melodramatic,”

“Fuck you,” Draco glared at her even as he let her take his wrist, her fingers over his pulse. “Better yet: Harry, fuck me,”

Potter pinched him again.

Draco’s cock _throbbed_. The traitor.

After a moment, Granger announced: “Pulse elevated, but not dangerously so. And his eyes are back to normal much faster.” She took Draco’s chin and forced him to meet her squinting eyes. “Yes, much faster. I can’t even see a hint of magic anymore, and it’s only been sixty seconds.”

“Good.” Draco was beginning to really hate that solid, competent tone he now realized Potter reserved for Serious Business. “Let’s give him a minute and I’ll try again,”

It meant Draco wasn’t getting laid any time soon. No matter how badly he needed it.

From the bathroom, Winnie howled in puppy rage on his behalf.

Approximately sixty more seconds passed, then Potter’s arm was wrapping around his middle, squeezing him tight, and Potter whispered in his ear with a wicked smirk:

“Ready?”

Draco’s answering groan ended in a sob.

“Try doing the entire room, this time.” Granger suggested.

“Noooo!” Draco whined, blanching at the thought.

Off to the side, Weasley made a far less empassioned sound of distaste. It was also much quieter than Draco’s protest.

But then Potter was doing magic, and Draco couldn’t be bothered by thoughts of Weasley. Or nearly anything else for that matter.

The power didn’t sweep through him like he’d grown used to in the previous months. No, no, no. There was too much of it for that. In the past few days, Potter had straight up over-saturated Draco’s poor Conduit senses, till he was nearly beside himself with the power bubbling under his skin. All. The. Time.

It was wonderful. For the first time since he’d become a Conduit, Draco never felt the magic fade. It was always with him, comforting and good, the next best thing to having his old magic and use of it back again.

It was also… problematic.

It made Draco useless. All he wanted to do was lay in bed, skin to skin, with his Master. For the first time, he could think favorably of the idea of being a traditional sort of Conduit, chained to a bed and never needing to lift a finger beyond what necessary to get fucked, and fucked well. He could spend his days lounging in bed, utterly lost to the magic and his Master’s command.

So long as Potter was his Master, it sounded like a good deal nowadays.

But no. Because his Master wasn’t interested in the simple, well-known benefits of having a Conduit. No. His master wanted more.

And Merlin and Morgana, but Draco was somehow rising to the occasion. In more ways than one.

Mordred’s balls, but he wanted to get fucked so badly.

When Draco became aware of the world again, he was flat on the living room floor, Potter’s knee on his chest and hands pinning his wrists. Granger was loomed over him, her fingers on the pulse in his neck.

“We’re done now, right?” Weasley said pointedly, sounding justified and pained.

Draco barely had the energy to wonder what he could have possibly said or done this time.

“That’s… probably for the best,” Granger’s face flushed a deep red as she pulled her hand away, avoiding Draco’s eye.

Draco whined, and this time he didn’t have the brain cells to spare for embarrassment. Potter had been drawing magic straight from the source, ripping it clear through Draco’s body in the process, for hours.

Hours.

And they’d only stopped once so Potter could throw him over his shoulder and carry him off to the bedroom _once_ , only once, and the “break” had been embarassingly short.

Potter had come. Draco had not. On Granger’s shame-faced suggestion.

And because his Master was an asshole. A sadistic, possibly strategic, but Draco was betting mostly sadistic, asshole. He didn’t know how they’d possibly gotten him to agree to this. His balls were so full, they’d stopped aching and gone straight to mind-numbingly pained _ages_ ago.

He was done. So done. Weasley didn’t know the half of it.

He opened his mouth to say this, but instead of words he just screamed in pent-up, blue-balled rage.

“We’ll take Winnie for a walk, shall we,” Granger said as she ran from the room.

“A long, long walk,” Weasley agreed, hot on her tail.

Potter, the utter asshat, had the gall to smirk as he shook his head at his friends’ antics.

Draco whined and damn nearly threw out his back as he pushed his hips into the air.

“Hush,” Potter’s soothing tone was infuriating as he slid his knee off Draco’s person, “We’ll take care of you, don’t worry,”

Draco’s wrists were freed and every bare, animal instinct ever exhibited by man took over and threw him into action. One moment, he was flailing on the floor; the next, he was on Potter like… well. Like a starved wild thing on a juicy bone.

He couldn’t come up with a better analogy. He was distracted.

“Okay, okay,” Potter said patiently.

He batter Draco’s hands away from his own trousers so he could unzip and pull Draco’s cock from the confines. Those long, strong fingers wrapped around him and Draco _sobbed_. Loudly.

“Merlin’s sagging tits,” Weasley muttered, and the front door slammed.

“Let’s get more comfortable, hmm?” Potter whispered against his temple.

The world spun and Draco found himself bent over the back of an incredibly well stuffed sofa that certainly had not been there the last time Draco had taken note of the living room. It smelled stuffy, kind of like cats.

It didn’t matter. Draco’s pants were around his ankles and Potter was rubbing two fingers over his hole promisingly while his other hand tugged on Draco’s needyneedyneedy cock. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his hips higher like a bitch in heat. He figured the metaphor wasn’t that far off by this point. The fingers slipped inside him and Draco absolutely panted for it.

“Can you take me again, love?” Potter asked, scissoring his fingers needlessly, “I can get you off just like this. I know, I know, baby. You’re ready.”

And Draco was. He was so ready. Beyond ready. Tears were streaming down his face and Draco was too desperate for a fucking orgasm to care.

Potter’s fingers scrapped over his prostate and Draco screamed.

“I think you can do it,” Potter said, not necessarily to him. Not that Draco could even notice. “Yeah, I think you can take more, can’t you.”

The fingers left him, and while Draco was irritated by it he wasn’t truly upset. Not until Potter’s other hand released his cock. Then Draco went wild.

He screamed through gritted teeth and kicked backward. When Potter merely knocked his foot away, he made to get off the couch so he could knock the bastard down and sit on his cock his damn self.

Potter didn’t give him the chance.

The breath blew out of him as Potter forced him back down. With a solid gripe in his hair, Potter shoved his face into the couch, pushing him forward till Draco’s hips were pressing uncomfortably hard into the seat’s back. Potter shifted them just enough to make sure Draco’s cock wasn’t unfortunately positioned, then he placed a single, playfully stinging swat on his flank.

Draco nearly came right then and there.

Thankfully, he didn’t. A moment later, Potter’s cock slid home and Draco wailed expectantly. He was not disappointed.

He was still _just_ wet enough from their earlier “break,” but only just. It was enough, since Potter wasted no time in establishing a punishing pace. Two, three, four, hard blows to his sweet spot, and Draco came all over that funny-smelling couch.

Harry kept fucking him, and since the pleasure had come from his Master’s hand Draco was free to soar on the magical high that always accompanied their couplings. For several long moments, that’s exactly what he did, lounging with his face pressed into the cushion and enjoying the shivers of prolonged pleasure as Harry pounded into him.

Then Harry came inside him again, and Draco barely had time to brace for the fresh wave of Might as raw energy crashed over him.

He blacked out.

~!~

“I can’t believe it worked,” Hermione laughed in amazment, picking at the scratch marks on the latest coffee table. “You shouldn’t have been able to change the entire room in one go. And to get this much detail!? All the from memory, you say?”

Harry shrugged, though privately he could admit, he was pretty surprised too. “What can I say. Mrs. Fig’s place left a very distinct impression.”

“I’ll say,” Ron whistled, his foot stretching out to nudging Winnie away from where she was gnawing on the worn corner a cat-fur-infested rug. “Blimey, you even replicated the smell convincingly.”

It shouldn’t have been possible. There were spells for re-configuring, or even summoning furniture; there were spells for painting walls, spells for creating and masking scents. There was _no_ spell that did all of it together, all at once, in the span of a few seconds of serious, contemplative thought.

“Harry,” Hermione said, stunned as she ran her fingers over the fireplace mantle. It looked disturbingly functional, despite the fact the house still didn’t have a chimney on the outside. “I’ve seen Professor McGonagall spend the better part of an hour trying to create the kind of detail you managed with fireplace _alone_ ,”

“I know,” Harry grinned.

“No wonder Malfoy tried to jump you,” Weasley added snidely.

Hermione snickered, but at least she looked a little ashamed of the teasing. Only a little.

Harry wagged his eyebrows, “I made it up to him,”

“I didn’t need to hear that,”

Hermione cackled.

The teasing humor faded soon enough though. As they all continued inspecting the results of Harry’s latest attempt to push the boundaries of the Conduit’s magic, silence reigned.

Hermione was the one to say what they were all thinking.

“We need to know if keeping physical contact with him is entirely necessary for this sort of… _limitless_ magic,”

Harry hated the thought. There was no way he would risk taking Draco out there. Not to Hogwarts, not to battle. Not anywhere someone would likely try to steal him away again.

“It won’t be,” Harry assured her. “He wasn’t there when I felt it on the beach. No reason he’ll need to be for the Fiendfire,”

“Still,” Ron hedged, looking at him sympathetically, “We should test it. Just to make sure.”

Harry nodded.

“Tomorrow then.” Hermione announced, decisive. “You and Ron can go to Neville’s in the morning and I’ll stay here to monitor Draco’s reactions. You have till then to think of something powerful to test over a distance. Besides, Draco needs to rest.”

“Yeah,” Ron crossed his arms and gave Harry a pointed look, “You may be doing the magic, but his is the body carrying the load.”

Harry and Hermione stared at him, one grinning, the other pained.

“...What?”

“Phrasing. Ronald.”

It took him a minute. Then, blushing hotly, Ron fummed at them: “You’re both despicable perverts.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. He shot Hermione a wink and said breezily, “Oh, you don’t even know,”

Hermione laughed, Ron whined. Winnie yapped at them all.

~!~

The following day, Draco was not pleased, and he made sure Granger, Weasley and Winnie all knew it at every possible opportunity.

“This...” he panted, words hard to come by, “is the worst… absolute… worst idea… _you_ ,” he spat, “have ever con… conceived of, Granger,”

“So you’ve told me.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with Malfoy,” Weasley agreed even as he tightened the utterly mundane rope tying Draco to the chair.

Granger had originally conjured ropes after the first time Draco had nearly made it out the door in a mad dash to go hunt down his Master. Unfortunately, the next time Potter had used the magic, Draco’s natural Conduit’s resistance to magic combined with his desperate wriggling and made the bindings give way far too easily. Granger had tackled him to the ground, then shot off a Patronus message to Weasley, demanding his immediate assistance.

For one wretched half hour, she had _sat on_ him while they waited for Draco to calm down and recover his rational mind, or for Weasley to procure rope from the local muggle shop as the case happened to be.

She _sat on_ him. The remnants of his Malfoy dignity, long beaten to death as it was, cringed. He wasn’t even capable of appreciating how laughable that thought was, his mind too lost in lust and need and a magic too strong for his skinny mortal body to know what to do with.

Three times in the past two hours.

Three fucking times. If his entire groin hadn’t ached from the day before, it sure as hell was now. Potter wasn’t even around to give him the tiniest bit of relief.

Potter hadn’t fucked him before he left. At the time, Draco had considered it a good idea, given how sore (physically) and over-fraught (magically) he’d found himself upon waking. For once, he hadn’t been in desperate need to have Potter reignite the Bond.

He had enough magic lingering in his veins, thank you very much.

Potter and Granger had expressed concern that it might be necessary, given the distance factor they were testing that day. Fortuantely, Weasley had won that argument; after all, there was no garaunte Potter would be able to make it back to Draco between containing the Fiendfire and any unexpected trouble that might require further use of Draco’s reservoir of power.

So Draco had eaten breakfast and simultaneously moped and rejoiced the fact that there was no sex that morning. Being a well-used Conduit was more complicated than anyone could have thought.

Hardly an hour later, Potter started using the magic, and Draco didn’t have the capacity for much thought, moping or rejoicing or anything else.

Distance, they quickly learned, wasn’t an issue. Not to anyone except Draco.

Speaking of…

The power streaked through his body, lighting him up in the best-worst way possible. It was brief, but all the more intense. Too intense.

“-- the fuck did he just do?!” Weasley was saying when Draco’s brain came back online.

“Wait,” Granger ordered in response.

She was bent over Draco’s restrained form, and it took a moment for his vision to focus on her concerned face, it was so close to his own. She was holding his head up with both hands, studying him intently, particualrly his eyes.

He must have blacked out. Huh. That usually only happened when Potter was coming inside him, and rarely at that--

His thoughts ground to a halt as he realized Weasley was also staring, his freckled face inches away and lined with consternation.

“Wha--” Draco tried to ask what was wrong, but immediately cut himself short as the first word came out slow and muddled.

“Hush,” Granger tilted his head forward a little. “You’re still processing the magic. I can see it in your eyes even now.”

Weasley, ever so helpful, summoned a mirror and held it up. Draco would have gaped if Granger hadn’t been holding his face so tight.

His eyes were glowing. Not neon, not even especially bright, but there was a distinct, gold-and-silver shimmer racing constantly around his irises, making the grey seem to move and burn hypnotically. He couldn’t feel it.

It was incredibly disquieting.

Draco continued staring for a long moment, and eventually Granger released her hold on him. Weasley began to lower the mirror, and as the sight disappeared so to did the distraction.

He became immediately and intensely aware of his erection. The ache had spread from his groin, into his gut as much as his ass, and his abdominal muscles screamed from prolonged tension. Despite the hard-on, Draco wasn’t so sure he was interested in sex just then.

It was almost nauseating, actually.

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” Granger’s otter came into being and she immediately intoned a message: “Get back to the safe house. Now. I don’t know what you did that time, but I think you might of overdone it.”

As the patronus ran off, Weasley remained dutifully in front of Draco. With a wave of his wand, the ropes untied.

Draco’s hand went between his legs without conscious thought. Weasley must have seen how profoundly not-aroused he was though, since he didn’t even try to stop him. And Draco moved slowly. He gripped his crotch through his jeans and the pressure was both a relief and a little bit noxious.

“I think we broke him,” Weasley muttered, looking ill.

“Damn it.” Potter cussed.

Draco was still coming to terms with the fact he was there when suddenly he was lifted off the chair, swaying as his Master carried him away.

“Is he alright?” Weasley asked.

“He’s still metabolizing the magic, Harry. Look at his eyes,”

“I know, alright. It’s my fault. I went too fast. He’ll be fine, he just needs some time,”

Draco closed his eyes and buried his face in Potter’s throat against a sudden onslaught of nausea. The deep ache between his legs was spreading throughout his body with a vengeance. He heard Granger and Weasley, their voices varied inflections of earnestness and aggravation, and Winnie’s distressed whimpering. He didn’t catch Potter’s reply any better.

He forced himself to pay attention once his clothes were off though.

“-- just try to relax for me, Draco,” Potter said soothingly, if a little harried. “It’s going to be alright. It won’t happen again.”

They weren’t in the bedroom, Draco realized, somehow surprised. He had expected the bedroom. All morning, he had been anticipating Potter taking him straight to bed the moment he got back.

“Just because I don’t have limits doesn’t mean you don’t. I won’t make that mistake again.”

They were in… the bathroom.

“It’s alright. You’re alright. It was just too much, too fast.”

Wet heat wrapped around his body. Draco jerked, Potter’s burly arms tightening around him as they lowered him into the bath.

“Relax,” Potter whispered, kissing his hair. “Try for me, Draco. I can feel you tensing against it, but you need to let the magic flow through you, okay. It’s not going to go away until you let it pass through.”

Ah. That was it. Of course. The ache, that terrible, stomach churning ache; it was the magic. Draco didn’t want it, of course he didn’t. It was meant for his Master, not for him.

“Good boy. Go on, let it go. Let me have it.”

It took a while for Draco to unclench every muscle that had locked up against the last pull on the Bond. Potter stayed with him, crouched beside the tub, massaging his back and scooped handfuls of warm water over his hair.

“That’s it,” Potter whispered, sounding inordinately pleased.

Draco sighed, closing his eyes and slumping back into the water, Potter’s hand between his skull and the tub. It took forever, but as the warm water sapped the tension from his body he could feel the sickness passing. The ache died down, less alarming, less deep and ugly, and more familiar. It became the sweet ache of well-tried muscles, sinful and encouraging.

His cock never had flagged, after all. He’d merely been distracted for a while.

“That’s it, love. Yeah, let’s take care of you,”

And they did.

~!~

Draco could hardly move the next day, his entire body hurt so badly.

Potter made it up to him with foot rubs and affectionate touches and the most gentle, dotting words. Weasley made him tea and biscuits, while Granger brought him lavender and bath salts that did wonders for his over taxed body. Winnie smothered him in cuddles and guarded him against the slightest potential molestation, not that Potter was forthcoming with such.

In the end, Cho and Luna got an extra week while they waited for Draco to recover. Nothing came of it.


	19. Burn, Baby, Burn

Somehow, Harry made it onto Hogwarts’ grounds and into the castle without anyone-- Ministry, Order, or Death Eaters-- the wiser. But by the time he met Luna outside the Room of Requirement, the alarms were blaring.

Despite the alarms, there wasn’t a soul in sight beside the two of them.

He wasn’t stupid enough to remove the invisibilty cloak though. He tapped Luna’s arm and whispered, “Where is everyone?”

She didn’t bother trying to look for him as a sad smile curved her lips. She looked exhausted, far more than any assistant professor aught to with less than a year under her belt.

“Minerva instituted a sundown curfew months ago, after the first time Death Eaters were spotted in Hogsmead. When the alarms go off, all students and professors are supposed to sequester themselves in their common rooms and let the Ministry handle it.”

Harry caught himself nodding even though she couldn’t see it. “Smart call. You should probably do that before you’re missed,”

She didn’t move immediately, merely stared at the blank wall where the door would soon appear.

“Luna? I’ve got this. Go,”

“Be careful, Harry.”

Without the slightest change to her tired, dreamy expression, Luna left him to it. Then again, she always did have absolute faith in him, even when it seemed no one else did. He would just have to prove her faith was well placed in him.

And Draco.

He let his thoughts about the blonde be overrun by thoughts of the Horcrux. _I need to recover Rowena’s Diadem. I need to recover Rowena’s Diadem. I need to recover Rowena’s Diadem_.

Just as Luna and Cho had warned, he opened the door into a chaotic mess of random, long lost items. He had to find a single ancient tiara among all that rubbish.

Despite himself, it was daunting.

Harry dropped the invisibility cloak and brandished his wand. “Accio diadem!”

Nothing happened. Predictably.

With a disappointed huff, Harry rolled his shoulders and reached for Draco, for that glowing thread in the back of his mind that connected him more thoroughly than ever to the Conduit. His fingers tightened around his wand as he drew on the line of power.

“Accio diadem!”

He felt the rush as the magic went to work. Or rather, as it sent the spell bursting from his wand with a force that would have been nerve-wracking not even three weeks ago. When the rush slowed down, then ended entirely, he knew the spell was over.

There was still no sign of the diadem.

“Fuck,”

He’d given it more than a decent go. There was no other option, and despite all their preparation and testing, he wasn’t entirely sure how Draco would handle the fallout of what was apparently necessary.

Fiendfire.

~!~

“Weasley!” Draco begged, smacking his hand on the bedroom door. “Weasley, open this blasted door, or I swear on Salazar’s grave, I will shove that iron skillet up your arse!”

On the other side of the barrier, Weasley scoffed, “How d’you like that! Some thanks I get for making a proper fry up with my own two hands--”

“Weasley!” Draco cut him off, kicking the door. It hurt his foot more than the door and he hopped away with a snarled: “Fuck!”

Weasley and Granger had locked him and Winnie in his room shortly after the three of them had finished supper. Draco had been perfectly agreeable about it, too. It was easy to see how isolation would be preferable than the after-the-fact embarrassment of knowing Potter’s friends had watched him get high on lust and magic.

At least, it _had_ been. But that was before he’d felt Potter pulling directly from that wealth of magic, leaving Draco to get swept away in the flood.

“Why don’t you…,” Granger cleared her throat uncomfortably, he voice close enough that she must have been very near the crack in the door, “Maybe you’d be happier if you… Oh, you know!”

“Buffing the bishop?” Weasley offered cheekily.

A solid smack sounded just outside the door.

Truly, the suggestion wasn’t all that bad. Or it wouldn’t be, except Draco had already tried that. The moment he’d felt Potter using their power, he’d dropped his pants and given into the urge fully. The orgasm had been miserable without his Master.

It didn’t help that he could still feel Potter fiddling with their Bond. He wasn’t actively doing spell work, there was no pull from the well, no siphoning of the power already clogging Draco’s body. He was merely… examining. Draco could feel his attention like the barest feather-light brush.

The fucking tease.

He had never felt it when the magic was used before, not before Potter had pushed him to full capacity as a Conduit. Before, he’d only known his awareness of it faded gradually as time wore on between sexual encounters.

That was not the case now.

Now, Draco felt his magic constantly. It was constant, yes, and even wonderful to a degree, but they knew now that it wasn’t sustainable. Not only did it turn Draco into a stupid horn ball, his body couldn’t tolerate that kind of stimulation forever. If it went on too long, Potter was confident Draco’s body would begin fighting the magic again, to disastrous ends. Beyond that, Draco became too excitable, in many meanings of the word, and he had difficulty sleeping when his body was so full of magic.

But at the very least, he wasn’t aroused to the point of dangerous distraction until Potter _used_ said magic.

Which is why he knew the moment Potter began preparing for the Fiendfire.

“Ooooh!” he groaned, doubling over in anticipation as the magic moved through him. His cock, still hard from the first spell Potter had done and despite the ensuing orgasm, jumped eagerly.

“Draco?” Granger called.

“Blimey, Mione. Don’t interrupt him!”

It wasn’t like last time, or the last _several times_. Potter had learned from his mishap at Longbottom’s, and he was careful as he began drawing on their joined magic. It was slow, glacial almost, and the power rippled through Draco in a way that made his thighs quiver and his balls pull up tight.

Draco unbuttoned his trousers for the second time in the past hour.

Something changed on Potter’s end, it must have. Quite suddenly there was a burst of heavy, raw energy barreling through him, sharp and wicked.

Draco’s cock leaked. His knees gave out.

As abrupt as that blast had been, it ended just as fast. No, not ended. It slowed. Potter had regained control, or changed his approach, or finished a strong, secondary spell, or _something_. Draco wasn’t about to stress himself trying to figure it out. All he knew was that teasing trickle of power dancing through his body.

Draco squeezed his cock, but didn’t stroke. He waited, already panting in expectation, and turned all of his attention on the ebb and flow of the magic.

One thing became readily apparent over the next ten minutes: Potter had most certainly learned from his mistakes, and learned well. Draco could feel his heartbeat pulsing faster in the hot flesh of his cock, faster, then faster still, as Potter built the magic up. He didn’t force it, didn’t make Draco give it all at once, but he encouraged the power to flow steadily.

Eagerly.

Draco followed in the magic’s wake. He rocked his hips, hand finally starting to slide over his needy cock in time with the increasing speed of the power’s flow. It didn’t just move through him faster, but stronger, and his grip tightened accordingly without any conscious thought. He threw his head back and moaned.

It took forever, an eternity really. Draco kept moving, touching and rocking, and _hoping_ that this next moment Potter’s spellwork would reach its peak and he could find relief. It would be a poor imitation of what his Master could give him if he were here, but at least his balls wouldn’t be full to bursting.

This moment.

This very moment.

The next one then.

He forced himself to relax his grip, to slow down. He didn’t know what torture would await him if he came before the spell was fully woven. They hadn’t tested--

“Please,” he whispered, eyes stinging and cheeks wet. “Harry. Master. Please.”

This moment. Surely this very next second it would end and he could--

But of course, it didn’t. Another small eternity passed.

At some point, he’d abandoned the desperate erection at his front and started fingering himself. He needed the continued stimulation, but not too much to bring him over the edge. He just needed to be patient.

He wished his Master where here. Merlin, did he wish his Master were here.

As if through a thick, distant fog, he thought he could hear Granger and Weasley speaking in concerned tones just outside the door. It was difficult to know, given the volume of his own sobbing.

Just as he was about to give up, damn the consequences, and finish himself off, the constant flow of magic cut off. The cresendo never completed, the flow never tapered. Draco floundered on the bedroom floor, shocked and cheated and somehow scared. Had something happened to Potter. It had just… stop--

It rolled over him in one powerful wave. Out of nowhere. He wasn’t braced.

The past however-long had prepared him well, though. As Potter summoned the largest mass of Might, ripping it through Draco’s body, the Conduit’s vision whited out. He spasmed. His cock sprayed, untouched. He fell limp and used up at the end of it, panting and staring blankly at the ceiling, but aware. He ached, yes, he ached all over, but it wasn’t an alarming degree of pain. His body had handled the speed and force far better than it had the previous week.

He doubted he’d be able to move for a while though.

For a brief time, there was only the sound of his panting breaths.

“...Draco?”

“Bloody hell,” Weasley hissed softly, “We’re going to have to go in there. Aren’t we? We’re bloody going to have to--”

Draco licked his lips and called weakly: “It’s done,”

A beat of stunned silence answered him.

“Are you… alright?” Granger asked.

His tongue felt heavy and awkward as he answered shortly, “Yes,”

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, slow and steady. His heart was still racing.

~!~

Harry was exhausted.

“You did it,” Luna whispered, amazed. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so shaken. She was usually so unflappable in her strange, dreamy way.

He slumped against the corridor wall breathing heavily. Fiendfire itself was an easy spell, dark and dangerous, but easy in it’s simple and wild way. Containing it, however… that had been something else. He hadn’t been able to cast a single, powerful containment spell, despite Draco’s magic. The fire’s very nature hadn’t cared much about the concept of being controled in any way, so it had quickly become an ongoing fight. He’d had no choice but to keep the spell going, keep fighting it, until it burned out.

It had gone on that way for the better part of half an hour, far longer than wand work was supposed to last, longer than even most ritual castings. A human body wasn’t designed to sustain that degree of adrenaline for so long.

He’d nearly lost control and broken the spell, nearly burned down the entirety of Hogwarts. And it wasn’t because of Draco. It was because of him.

Somehow, in the excitement of learning Draco’s limits, he’d forgotten his own.

In the end, he’d had no choice by to change tactics. In one harrowing move, he’d dropped the containment spell. The fire roared loader in angry victory. And Harry, in those terrifying milliseconds, demanded Draco’s power do something that modern wizardry had no name for.

He began to remove the air from the Room, slowly suffocating the open fire as it finished its job.

It was the most difficult feat of magic he had ever done, and possibly ever would.

“Harry,” Luna continued in that awed, soft voice, “Harry, I think… I think you killed the Come-and-Go Room,”

He stared at the charred edges of the open doorway and the piles of utter ash beyond it. He remembered the DA, their time spent in that room and what it had given them. His heart hurt.

“Another casualty of war,” he said thickly.

His skull hit the wall with a dull thump as he leaned back and closed his eyes. Merlin, but he was exhausted. He only hoped Draco wasn’t too bad off, he could only imagine--

Through his eyelids, brilliant, wretched green light flashed.

Harry was on his feet and joining Luna at the nearest window before his body’s protest could even register.

“No!” Luna cried, hand over her mouth as a new, louder alarm rang through Hogwarts.

Harry wasn’t the only one playing with fire that night: Hogsmead was burning, an enormous, grotesquely green skull and serpent glowing over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahaha! Cliffhanger!


	20. The Battle of Hogwarts, Part 1

“Someone needs to stay with Draco.” This time, the reminder came from Neville.

“Yes,” Granger agreed, not for the first time.

Draco rubbed his hands over his face in consternation as he waited for the conversation to deteriorate into speculation and panicked half-plans. Again. They’d been talking in circles for the past hour, ever since Longbottom had showed up to tell them Hogwarts was under attack, with Harry effectively trapped inside.

It was Draco’s worst fear, a fear he hadn’t even known about until it happened. Harry was half a country away from him, in grave danger, and Draco had no way of helping. They were still recovering from controling the Fiendfire, Draco’s entire body was sore and only the fear had given him enough energy to pick himself off the floor and make it out to the couch with Granger’s assistance.

They were all so worried, no one had even noticed he still smelled like sex, with his shirt sticking against his belly tellingly.

He didn’t even care. He could be the most disgusting person in the world, and it would mean nothing next to the rock of dread in his gut telling him his Master, his whole world, was out of reach and in danger.

Merlin. What would he do if something happened to Harry.

“You stay,” Weasley said, his words reaching Draco’s ear, but not quite making it to his brain.

“But I can--”

The Order would probably… _requisition_ him. Or the Ministry. Whoever got to him first….

“We’re stronger duelist, Nev. You know this,”

“We _do_ have more experience in combat,” Granger added, apologetically.

Maybe Granger and Weasley would help him. Maybe they’d get him Bonded to another. Someone they trusted.

“That’s bulkshit. You guys need every wand you’ve got,”

“And Draco needs to be guarded by one of those wands! You’re one of the only people we trust, who _Harry_ trusts,”

The Weasleys were kind to him. They treated him like a person, and he’d take that over attraction if he had to, readily. Didn’t Ron have an older, unattached brother. Surely, if he asked they’d take his opinion into account.

“What about Molly? She could stay with him, he knows her--”

“Mum and Dad are already at Hogwarts, and fat chance calling her back--”

Draco tried to imagine bedding a redheaded, freckly man, and thought made the lead in his gut twist till he gagged.

“Draco!”

“You alright, mate?”

Draco shook his head as his throat closed up, breath straining past the blockage. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t Bond with anyone else.

“Draco! Draco, look at me!” Granger called shrilly, right in his face.

Potter was his Master. His Bonded. His love. He couldn’t do this without him. He wouldn’t.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Draco!”

“… Could it be something Harry’s doing?”

Someone shook him by the shoulders. His eyes were opened, but he couldn’t tell who it was, who was in front of him, who was calling his name.

All he knew was that if Potter died, Draco wouldn’t hesitate to drag one of the kitchen knives across his own throat.

~!~

Minerva McGonagall hadn’t changed much in the Headmistress’ office since Harry had been in school under Dumbledore, but she had replaced a couple threadbare chairs with a comfortable lounge seat. That lounge seat was now his favorite thing about the room as Luna dropped him on it like a dead weight. It was so incredibly comfortable, and he was beyond tempted to slump over for a nap.

But Hogwarts was being attacked. And the wards wouldn’t hold forever.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked, rubbing some life back into his eyelids with a grimace.

McGonagall gave him a familiar glare over her spectacles, the kind that told him she thought he was being especially thick. “For now, Mr. Potter, the plan is for you to rest.”

“I can help--”

“You are next to useless at the moment, after having scarred my school by destroying the Room of Requirement,”

Harry winced, then gave her a bashful grin. “Oops.”

She glared at him, unimpressed as ever.

“In my defense, I hadn’t _meant_ to destroy the Room,”

She sighed. No matter how many years since he’d left school, since he’d broken official ties to the Order, she still managed to make him feel like a naughty child with all the disappointed demeanor of a tried mentor. Which she was, and probably always would be, if he were honest.

Sometimes, he really missed her.

“Sleep, Potter. You’ve done more than your fair share of fighting for the day,”

He definitely did _not_ miss her constant shielding. He understood the betrayal and guilt that led her to treat him as such, but it didn’t stop it from feeling condescending. She hadn’t known about Dumbledore’s training and negligence when he’d been a child and needed said protection, and somehow she kept forgetting he had grown up since.

“Minerva,” he said firmly, waiting till her gaze snapped to his at the use of her given name, “In case you haven’t heard, I have significantly more magic than the lot of your professor’s and ministry guards combined at my disposal,”

“Yes. And how do you propose to bring that magic to arms when you can hardly stand.”

It wasn’t a question.

“The wards will hold,” Luna interjected in the following tension, voice floaty and reasonable. “You should rest and recover you energy, Harry. Minerva and I can keep your presence here quiet, and we’ll let you in on the plan when you wake up.”

“Professor Lovegood is correct, Potter. Besides, there’s not much more we can do while we wait to hear back from Alastor and Scrimgeour. Go to sleep.”

And really, that logic was too sound to ignore, wasn’t it.

~!~

A mere four hours after Potter had dealt with the Fiendfire to destroy some dark artifact, Draco found himself seated at the dining table with a drooling baby in his lap while Winnie whined about having her favorite perch usurped.

“How did I even get here,” he drawled dully as he stared down at the bright blond hair currently decorating the child’s head.

“It could be worse,” Andromeda assured him as she set down a tumbler of some sort of amber liquid. No matter the faults he’d grown up hearing about, his aunt sure knew her way around muggle alcohol. “You could be running to your death beside your father at this very moment, under the mark of a mad man.”

She wasn’t wrong.

~!~

Harry woke to Winky the houseelf poking at his face determinedly. Her large eyes were shiny and terrified as she whispered harshly: “You is needing to get to the Great Hall, Mister Potter sir. The is needing you now!”

“Alright, alright. I’m up!”

He blinked fast, trying to rid himself of the last vistages of sleep. He was alone in McGonagall’s office, save for the elf, and her quiet, terrifyingly subdued voice didn’t sit right with him either. The sky outside was dusky and still.

Everything was too quiet.

Hogwarts’ hallways were just as eerily still when he stumbled off the turning staircase. He sped toward the Great Hall, his frantic heartbeat at odds with the complete lack of activity around him. Hogwarts had never felt so empty before. There were no students, no professors, no ghosts. It was more unsettling than anything he’d experienced so far in his admittedly eventful life.

The unease settled in his gut like an overeager rocket that had run out of steam, heavy and wasteful, at best an inconvenient distraction from all the nothing around him-- No.

There was something going on.

The staircases were as motionless and expectant as the rest of the castle, and as Harry stepped off the last of them on his way toward the dining hall, he finally heard it. He nearly felt it more than heard it, the sound reverberating in his skull and chest rather than in his ears.

There was a low, distant groaning.

He passed into the large, open foyer of the castle and slowed to a halt. Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, and Slughorn were standing just outside the closed doors to the dining hall. All four of them had wands drawn, at rest by the their sides, as their eyes remained trained on the other end of cavernous room. They were watching the massive stone doors that were Hogwarts’ main entrance.

Harry turned to stare too, but there was nothing to see.

He could hear that low, terrible groan. It was constant, deliberate, and right outside those doors.

“When did they break through the wards?” Harry asked no one. Or maybe everyone.

“Moments ago,” McGonagall admitted, her face stony as she watched the entrance.

Harry waited for her to continue, to tell him more, the plan, anything. She didn’t.

After a moment, when all anyone could hear was that wretched groaning as dark magic attacked Hogwarts, Pamona Sprout finally broke out of the collective trance and took a handful of steps toward him.

“They surrounded the grounds too quickly for us to evacuate the students,” she said, “We collected them all in the Great Hall for now, the other professors and most of the house elves are with them as a last line of defense,”

Harry looked from her to the other three professors, “And the Heads of Houses?”

Sprout looked a little ill, but he recognized her resolve as she stood a little taller, “We’ve warded the Hall from the outside. So long as one of us is still alive, they won’t harm those children.”

“Potter,” Flitwick’s squeak of a voice was loud in the tense hush that had seeped into the castle stones.

Only then did Harry realize he and Sprout had been whispering needlessly.

“The Ministry and the Order are here,” the tiny man explained with an air of forced detachment. “They’ve been trying to fight their way through the Death Eaters for nearly two hours, and Arthur Weasley’s last patronus was not...” he paused, “it was not quite encouraging,”

“We judged it best to let you rest as long as possible,” Minerva added softly. Harry met her eyes, and they were wet behind her spectacles like he’d never seen before, even at Dumbledore’s funeral. “Those doors will not hold much longer. Can you help us?”

That telling moan boomed louder, less distant, and echoed around them.

Hogwarts trembled as that awful sound pitched higher. He felt the impact of dark magic against the ancient castle’s defenses like a physical sensation that shook his entire body. Beside him, Slughorn and McGonagall shifted in place, similarly affected.

“Can you do this, Potter?” McGonagall asked baldly, without pretense or any attempt to coddle.

In answer, Harry slid his own wand from the holster on his forearm as he took his place beside the professors.

~!~

Seven hours. Seven hours, thirteen minutes and roughly thirty seconds after the Fiendfire, and Draco’s aunt got to know her nephew a whole lot better than she probably ever wanted to.

“Wah!” Teddy wailed, reaching for Draco desperately as Andromeda removed the babe from his arms before Draco could drop him.

“Merlin and Morgana….” he groaned burying his face in his hands as magic rushed through him, unexpected and _fast_.

But not too fast.

He hadn’t been ready, he hadn’t felt Potter so much as turn his attention to their shared magic until suddenly he was drawing on it, and drawing heavily.

“What’s happening, Draco?” Andromeda asked, feeling his forehead. “Is it Potter? What’s he doing?”

Draco lifted his head just enough to glare as he hissed through his teeth: “Magic,”

Her dark eyes, so much like Bellatrix’s and yet world’s different, went wide as she stepped back reflexively, “Your eyes…?”

He couldn’t feel it, of course, but he could imagine the shocking glittery glow that must be smothering his irises and pupils. It had been unsettling the first time Weasley had held up a mirror for him to see this visible effects of the Conduit magic at work.

And Potter was certainly using a lot of that magic just then.

“I need...” he gripped the back of the couch with both hands as he shakily got to his feet. His cock had gone from appropriately shriveled in terror to a raging erection with a speed and force that rivaled the magic’s sudden flow. It made walking-- _thinking_ \-- difficult.

“… Draco?”

“I...” he managed to direct himself in the general direction of the bedroom. At least… he was pretty sure. “I’m… I have to...”

Potter. He needed to get to Potter. His Master could help him. He just knew it.

A hand was on his shoulder, steering him away from a door he hadn’t consciously sought out. The hand was wrong. Too small. Too thin. Too frail. Too feminine. Too…

“You need to go lay down, dove.”

“Harry… I need him, just...”

“Of course, Draco. Into the bedroom now, I’m sure he’s waiting for you...”

That too-everything-wrong hand shoved him away from the front door, ushering him down a hall he took no notice of. It was difficult to walk, to think through the arousal and the magic. But it would be okay so long as Harry...

“Just a little further, little dove. You’re alright. No, no, this way. You’re Master’s in there,”

He tripped over something small and fluffy as white spots floated across his vision.

“Out of there, mutt. Shoo!”

“Where…?” he asked lamely, frowning around at the empty room. There was no Harry, only white spots popping in and out and in and out.

“I’m so sorry, dove. I need to ward the room now. Do what you need to do for yourself.”

It was an embarrassingly long time after she’d closed the door and locked it that Draco realized he’d been tricked.

His Master wasn’t here, and he wasn’t coming.

~!~

Harry lost track of time, but not as quickly as he lost track of the professors. The Great Hall was still sealed, curses and monsters bouncing off an invisible shield, so he knew at least one of them was still alive. It was enough to hope they all were.

He had no time, space, or energy to spare for that hope.

The Death Eaters and their assorted beasts had rushed them with more brute force than strategy, overwhelming their meager five-man team with an angry swarm. Their one and only advantage was the bottleneck the doorway created as the enemy tried to jam themselves in like sardines; it was an advantage they were losing quickly.

In the ensuing chaos, he didn’t have time to think of spells or dueling techniques. He didn’t have time to think, only react.

It had to be enough to stall, to by them time till the Order and the Ministry could draw the target from their heads.

It had to be enough.

~!~

At some point, Draco gave up on chasing dissatisfying orgasms. He lay on the bed, a mess of tears and snot and cum, reduced to a trembling ball of traitorous arousal and overwhelming magic. In the tiny, nearly smothered part of his mind were rational thought might exist, he was vaguely aware that despite the suddenness of their current situation, they were doing as well as could be expected. Potter hadn’t forced too much magic too fast, not even as he was doubtlessly fighting for his life. His Master was still doing his best to be kind to Draco.

It didn’t matter.

At some point, the dissatisfaction of his own hands had been eclipsed by the misery of his Master’s absence. He’d stopped trying. He’d gone limp, with the exception of involuntary seizures when Potter drew strongly along their Bond.

He lost himself to the magic and his Master’s demand.

His cock was stubbornly hard, his hole twitching in pointless excitement. The arousal had long since stopped being remotely enjoyable.

~!~

There was no retreat. Nowhere to go. He could feel Draco’s presence, his magic, like a tangible thing at his back and in his mind.

It didn’t matter.

His legs gave out. The only reason the Death Eater in front of him didn’t cut him in half was the raw instinct that made Harry shrowd himsef in a diamond-like shield the moment his knees buckled. He panted, swaying with exhaustion as he put his all into the inexplicable barrier. Dumbly, he acknowledged how beautiful and glimmering the protection was, visible and solid unlike the intangible Protego charm.

Even with skull-masks and snarling fangs clawing at the other side, it was a breathtaking display of magic. It was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

With perhaps one except.

It was beautiful like Draco’s eyes when he was fit to burst with the magic Harry had filled him with.

~!~

Teddy was crying in the other room when Andromeda came in to keep him from choking on his own vomit.

“Come on, dove. You need to move. Levi corpus! Fuck!”

Draco groaned pitifully as she grabbed his shoulder and yanked him onto his side. She was so small, her hands so thin and soft, that she had to lean back with her entire body weight to get him to roll. His body followed the momentum without his participation.

“Draco!” she scolded, and for a moment he thought he was hearing his mother. She slapped his cheek lightly as the scolding tone gave way to alarm. “Draco, you have to get up. I can’t levitate you into the bathroom. You need to help me, dove,”

A soft whine sounded nearby and a moment latter he felt Winnie’s wet nose snuffling against his hair line. Her little nose felt shockingly cool on his sweaty forehead.

“Draco, please,” she pleaded, tugging on his shoulders to try and get him up.

Winnie whimpered against his cheek.

Somewhere beyond the room, Teddy wailed.

~!~

He wasn’t consciously maintaining the diamond barrier any more. It was all he could do just to keep upright, sitting slouched on the cold stone floor. Each blink of his eyes lasted longer and longer.

He wondered if the shield would stay when he fell unconscious. Most charms wouldn’t.

A grotesque face smashed into the shield directly in front of his face. One of Greyback’s mutated wolves, half-shifted and deformed outside of the moon’s natural domain. It’s fangs made no mark on the shield beside spreading blood from the flesh still hanging from its jaws.

Harry swayed, eyes aching as they met that crazed, murderous stare. The shield was going to fail, he thought, and this monster was going to eat him alive.

He wondered if Draco would know when it happened.


	21. An Interlude of Love and War

The shield charm had failed. He didn’t remember it, didn’t remember finally losing the battle with sleep. He only remembered pain.

The pain was still there when he opened his eyes, but it wasn’t what woke him.

“-- Draco. Harry, you need to wake up. I can’t bring him to you.”

Hermione was leaning over him, her frowning face the first thing to fill his field of vision. Her hair wwas tangled and knotted with debris. There was ash on her face, smeared and streaked with dried tear tracks. As he blinked at her, relief washed over her expression.

“Thank Merlin,” she breathed.

“Dray--” he winced as the words caught in his throat with a painful knotted feeling, like he’d swallowed shards of glass. Reflexively, he raised his hand toward his face.

Hermione caught his wrist, her expression carefully controlled. “Don’t. Just… don’t talk, don’t touch.”

Of course. The werewolf. It must have gone straight for his throat. And everyone knew werewolf-inflicted wounds were notoriously difficult to heal, even with magic.

The realization didn’t make him go cold or panic, even as he considered what he must look like right at that moment. He didn’t feel any bandages on his face, neck, or shoulder, only a vague pain and a distant wrongness. Then again, maybe he just had a particularly effective numbing potion in his system…

It didn’t matter. He had to ask about Draco--

Oh no. Draco. Merlin, but he must have been drawing magic for hours beyond what they’d planned for the Fiendfire.

“Careful!” Hermione cried, reaching for him as he lurched up out of bed.

His stomach heaved and his vision swam as he gracelessly lept out of what turned out to be one of dozens of hastily transfigured hospital beds. He stalled, startled by a disturbing lack of balance as much as the realization that they were in the dining hall. Instead of throngs of terrified students, there were rows and rows of bed and wounded people.

There was a dense line of bodies piled up against the far wall.

Harry swallowed reflexively at the sight, and the action lit him up with agony. He blinked away tears as his hand came up to his throat, and the moment his fingers felt the twisted, nasty mess of his stitched up wounds he caught sight of a familiar spot of bright pink hair among all those so-still bodies.

That was when reality caught up with him. The panic only just began to set in.

Tonks. Fuck, that was Tonks, his godson’s mother, motionless and still, half her body shrouded by the weight of another corpse. Merlin, but he hadn’t seen her in months, not since Remus had asked him to be Teddy’s God--

Remus. Merlin. That was Remus’ body on hers--

It hurt to breathe. His chest was too tight and each breath was coming too fast and hard for his damaged throat to swallow with any degree of comfort.

“Potter!?”

And there were others over there. Bodies. Other bodies, faces he knew. From the Ministry, the Order, from Hogwarts. Unknown faces, young, so young faces….

“Harry,” Hermione whispered urgently, trying (and failing) to guide his hand away from the mess of not-yet-scars that made up his neck and shoulder. “Harry, calm down. We need to get to Draco--”

Draco. Of course.

She may as well have said a magic word.

He didn’t hear another word she said, he didn’t _care_ to hear anything else. Draco, his Draco wasn’t here, he was alive and safe, and he needed his Master. He couldn’t help these people, not before and not now, but Draco…

He spun out of Hermione’s hold and in the same instant apparated the fuck out of there.

He landed hard, knees hitting the carpet in the little muggle house outside of Burford. There was a clatter of noise and a short feminine scream as he struggled with his badly impaired balance. Getting back on his feet was rough, and the room spun even once he’d gotten upright and stilled. He was still breathing hard and each inhale seemed to unseat his center of gravity anew.

“Merlin. Potter? What… what happened to you?”

“Dray--” He tried again to say Draco’s name, but it got caught in his tangled flesh and the resulting cough nearly brought him to the floor again. He tasted blood, could feel it welling in the back of his throat.

“Merlin, Harry, you’re bleeding,”

Then Andromeda Tonks was in front of him, holding a dish towel to the front of his neck with panic on her face that told him he must look worse than he felt.

 _Draco_ , he could barely mouth the word, yet alone say it. He didn’t pause to consider the disturbing possibility that Andromeda might be holding his voice box in place; he swallowed the blood in his mouth as he tried to step around her and get to his Conduit.

“Harry, no. Stop, you’re not well--”

He stumbled down the hall, aiming for Draco’s bedroom. He pushed the door open with the dish towel in his hand and was momentarily surprised to notice less blood spotting it than he’d expected.

Draco wasn’t in the bedroom. Harry spun away without even entering.

“Harry, you need a healer!”

He shrugged Andromeda’s hands off his shoulders as he went for the cracked-open bathroom door. He nearly fell, between her persistant grasp and his piss poor coordination. His palms hit the door, but not as hard as his uninjured shoulder.

Draco was there. In the tub, he was right--

“What the fuck!?” Mindy Finstock screamed, brandishing a toilet brush like it was a rapier. The thing fell from her hand a second latter as she recognized him. “My God, how… what…?”

Harry ignored the muggle in favor of the Conduit.

Draco was reclined against the far corner of the tube, his unconscious, pretty head resting on some sort of plastic pillow that screamed muggle-made. His cheeks were flushed a feverish red. Even with his swimming vision, Harry could see his muscles twitching, independently of each other and random.

Merlin’s beard. He’d nearly killed them both…

“My God. We need to call an ambulance! Andy! Call the coppers, call somebody!”

Harry collapsed at the side of the bath, his knees protesting as they hit the tile. He didn’t care. He reached into the water with hands that turned the liquid pink and he didn’t care. He scooped Draco up with one hand behind his neck and the other arm wrapping about his middle, soaking his robe all the way to the shoulder.

The water was luke-warm, but Draco’s body was like burning coal in his hands.

“Dray--” he gave a painful sort of half-cough, small flecks of blood spraying onto Draco’s pale forehead, “--co,”

He buried his face in the wet strands of blonde hair and cried.

~!~

Draco’s whole body hurt, like the debilitating throbbing the day after he’d run his feet raw escaping Runcorn, except everywhere and bone deep. He was aware of the ache before anything else, before he’d even thought to open his eyes.

The second thing to breach his awareness was the sound of Granger and Andromeda speaking in harsh whispers somewhere nearby.

“But what was she doing here in the first place!?”

“Don’t blame me, Granger. You said anyone listed in his phone could be called on for help, and I needed the help. She was the first person to respond.”

“Because everyone else was defending Hogwarts!”

“I still needed help! You should have warned me. How was I supposed to know he had muggle friends!”

“Excuse me, but can we get back to the part where there’s a dead magic man in Draco’s bed!?”

“For the last time, Mindy: Harry’s not dead,”

“But he _is_ magic?”

“Yes,”

“Right. Sure. Okay. And the baby. The baby’s magic too, with magic hair...”

“I am going to stupify her, Granger,”

“No, Andy, you are not. You’re going to take advantage of the free babysitting she’s providing while you and I try to wake Harry again.”

Harry.

That managed to motivate him into opening his eyes, till he was greeted by the sight of his bedroom ceiling. Against his body’s deep protest, he forced himself to turn his head, instinctively seeking out his Master.

“Oh Merlin. _Harry_.”

Despite the overheard conversation in the next room, for one wild moment Draco thought Potter really was dead. He lay on his back so utterly still, skin deathly pale and the hollows of his eyes and cheeks grey. The entire left side of his once handsome jaw was a jagged mess of amateurly stitched flesh that continued in ever more alarming lumps and grooves down his neck, over his collar bone and leading a sick trail beneath a clean t shirt.

Hands shaking from so much more than pain, Draco reached for his Master. He had to know. The sight of his ruined body made his stomach turn from disgust and fear, but he had to know. Did the wounds continue on his shoulder? His arm? How much of his chest was now mottled, never to be the strong, smooth muscle Draco hadn’t had enough opportunity to rest his head on?

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco cried as he scooted closer to tentatively put his fingers to his love’s arm. “ _Harry_ , no.”

The bicep under the shirt was solid and smooth. Draco latched on with a jump of hope, giving Potter’s unresponsive arm a squeeze.

“Harry. My Harry,”

He dragged his hand upward, realized the bunching of the cloth might hide something, and smoothed it down to continue his path upward with gentle, trembling pats. He needed have bothered; the moment he reached the very top of the shoulder the disfigurement was obvious.

“No, no, no,” he whispered to himself, to Potter’s prone form.

He patted at Potter’s chest, nauseated a new when he found less chaotic lumping but three distinct lines, thick and of uneven thicknesses, streaking downward from the concentrated damage at his throat. The streaks-- claw marks, he realized with a start-- hadn’t been too deep; he could still feel significant muscle intact beneath them.

Still. It was awful close to his heart. And to Draco’s.

“No,” he moaned, awkwardly forcing his abused body to crawl, to let him get close to the only person who matter, who needed him and was needed in return. “Harry. Please. Harry.”

“It’s alright, Draco. He’s alive,” Granger told him tearfully.

“No! No!” Draco screamed when her hands took his wrists and pried him off of his Master.

“Draco, stop! You’ll end up hurting him!”

“It’s alright, I’ve got him. See to Harry,”

Draco kept screaming wordlessly as Granger dragged him off the bed. He was just a flailing mess of stiff, aching limbs, hardly giving her a fight. He wailed and cried and begged as she pulled him to the floor and locked her arms and legs around him from behind.

“Hush, Draco. Hush. I know. I know it looks bad,” she sobbed with him, her tears wetting his ear. “But he’s alive. You kept him alive, Draco.”

It was enough for the Conduit. His Master was alive, he could recover, their Bond was still intact.

But Draco, the man? It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

~!~

Harry had no memory of anything after he’d gotten his hands on Draco’s feverish body. One moment, he was crumbled beside the bath in mourning, the next he found himself in bed with peaceful predawn light peaking through the curtains.

It was his and Draco’s bed. But where was Draco.

He tried to turn his head to look for him, but the peculiar pulling of his flesh and limited range of motion stopped him. He remembered the wolf attack and had to close his eyes, squeeze his fists tight, against the threat of another panic attack.

“Easy, mate.”

He opened his eyes slowly, deliberately, to see Ron sitting in a conjured chair beside the bed. The red head looked exhausted and miserable, deep shadows under his eyes and his enormous frame slumped in the chair with carelessness rather than relaxation. As Harry held his gaze, he watched his friend’s expression crumble.

“Fred. We… we lost Fred.”

No. No. Just no.

“Remus. Tonks.”

No.

Ron couldn’t hold his eyes any longer, his own overflowing as he continued: “Lavender. She’s dead. Torn apart by greyback himself. And Colin and...”

No.

“Mad-eye went down too. Guess he won’t be hounding us anymore,”

No.

He couldn’t just lay here. He should be doing something. Anything. He was supposed to be the Chosen One, their champion, he wasn’t supposed to… to… lose.

The pulling in his neck, shoulder and chest was revolting, sharp and tearing as he forced himself upright and swung his legs down from the bed. It hurt, even through the telling numbness of pain relieving potions, but he didn’t feel the wet heat of fresh blood, so he ignored it.

Large hands came down on his knees before he could think of shifting weight to them. He looked up to see Ron’s stubborn, teary face.

“… We thought we lost you too.” he whispered. “We nearly did, after you Apparated through the wards and just… left us all there. You can’t do that, Harry. You can’t disappear like that, not from us. You don’t know what it was like when Hermione and I got here to see you and Draco… bloody _lifeless_.”

Lifeless. He spat the word like it tasted as bad as Harry’s entire body and soul felt.

It hurt, but Harry managed to get out through the jagged shards of his throat: “Draco,”

Ron let go of his knees and slumped back into his chair, one hand rubbing over his face as he nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. He’s alright. Well… he’s as alright as the rest of us. Terrified you wouldn’t wake up, I think. You’ve been out for the better part of a full day. Hermione and that muggle woman have him sleeping between them in our room so he doesn’t reopen your wounds trying to reassure himself you’re still breathing. Can’t say I blame him,”

“Hog--” he winced, feeling something delicate give and a hint of blood tickled the back of his tongue. “--warts?”

“Effectively under siege,” Ron sniffled away the last of his tears and straightened up. “We got them to retreat as far as the forest, but that didn’t last much longer than the time it took to gather the dead and for McGonagall and Scrimgeour to stop arguing over what to do with you. I imagine they moved past that once they heard you’d left the castle.”

Harry went to run his hands over his face, but found his left arm wouldn’t cooperate. He dropped both hands to his lap instead, gripping fingers together with as much force as he could muster, his left significantly weaker than his right.

Fuck.

That wolf hadn’t managed to kill him, somehow, but he’d done a damn good job of it anyway. Assuming he lived long enough for the scars to heal fully, he’d probably end up like Bill: permanently disfigured, hotter tempered than ever, and with a penchant for raw meat. At least they knew from experience that Greyback and his mutts couldn’t pass on the full curse outside of the moon.

It was a small relief that did nothing to distract him from the grief.

He’d seen Tonks and Remus. He hadn’t seen Fred. Lavender. Colin. Mad-eye. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror either, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that right now.

They were still at war. Hogwarts could fall at any moment. The wizarding world needed its champion. He couldn’t afford to mourn right now, not for the dead and certainly not for his looks and physical mobility. He was needed.

Ron didn’t stop him when he went to stand this time. He didn’t stop him when he palmed his wand, or when he slashed it through the air to practice a disarming hex. Wordless, barely tapping on the line of Conduit magic at the back of his mind, the spell shot the bedroom door off its hinges with a bang.

It also knocked Harry off his unstable feet.

He tumbled onto the bed with a groan. The vibration from the sound hurt worse than the throbbing in his shoulder upon impact, but only just. All of it hurt, honestly.

“You can’t go out there like this.” Ron said stonily from his chair.

“No shit,” Harry hissed, wanting to cry and rage in equal measure at the ruined, scratchy thing that was his voice.

He wasn’t the only one either, Ron’s face did a complicated sort of grimacing wince at the sound of it, till he just looked pained. A devastated silence fell over them.

But they didn’t have time for grief. Hogwarts needed them-- no. Hogwarts needed _him_. He needed to find a way around this. He needed to get over it and do what needed to be done. They still had to kill the fucking snake. And there needed to be enough of him left over to finish the Dark Lord after that.

But _how_.

He could barely stand. He had no idea what shape Draco was in, but it didn’t matter if he had all the magic in the world hidden up his arse, if Harry couldn’t even use---

“I’ll go check if Draco’s awake,”

Harry couldn’t even make his mangled body nod appropriately. He let Ron banish his chair and leave the room without so much as a blink to indicate he’d heard. He just lay there, useless and hurting and sick to his stomach with dread as his lower legs hung off the side of the bed.

He must have slipped back to sleep. Between one shaky breath and the next, the predawn light had bloomed into full morning. He was also suddenly no longer alone.

“Dra--”

Soft lips interrupt him before the last syllable could scratch its way out of his mouth. He opened his mouth in a sigh, welcoming the kiss as he reached out with his good hand to pet that silken blonde hair. Draco’s lips were achingly gentle, terrified. He tasted salty, of tears and worry.

Sure enough, when Draco ended the kiss his eyes were glassy and his smile weak. He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen.

Harry stroked his Conduit’s cheek, gaze intense as if he could convey the thought without words.

Draco nuzzled into the touch eagerly, with a sniffled: “Hey,”

Harry mouthed the word back at him.

That was too much for Draco, who’s eyes overflowed as his fine brows pinched together. He leaned down and gently rested his forehead on Harry’s sternum, carefully avoiding the injured side of his body. Harry stroked his hair with his good hand and shakily laid his other across the blonde’s heaving back as he cried silently.

He tried to swallow, tried to find words and a way to say them without damaging himself further, without making Draco shy away in discomfort the way Ron had at the sound of his voice. He was still trying when Draco beat him to it.

Face still buried against his chest, Draco’s whispered words were still clear, “We’re alive. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay, Harry.”

Harry tried out a soft hum, hoping it sounded more convinced than he actually felt. Draco needed him to be convinced. Draco needed him, like the world needed him, only so much more. So. So. Much. More.

On top of him, beneath his hands, Draco’s shaking stopped. He went still, suddenly calm.

Harry’s hands went to that fair head, intending to lift Draco’s face to try and see what was wrong-- what _else_ was wrong-- or get a hint at what he needed.

Draco kissed his chest instead and sat up fully, his face slipping from Harry’s hands. With the smallest hop, he swung a leg across Harry’s prone form and straddled him.

Harry frowned up at him.

Draco smiled that watery, fake smile. “We can be okay,” he reiterated as he placed Harry’s hands on his hips pointedly. “We can fix this, Harry. We’re both alive and the magic’s right there. We just have to use it.”

Harry stared up at him uncomprehendingly. Draco couldn’t possibly mean… Not even a fucking Conduit would find sex with him appealing at this exact moment, when so much of him was nothing but raw wounds that could open too easily and his ability to move was so limited…

Draco shimmied his hips anyway, and the only reason Harry didn’t get hard was because he was so convinced that couldn’t possibly be happening right now.

“Harry, please.” Draco bit his lip and used the back of his sleeve to wipe the wetness from his eyes. He jerked his hips again. “We can do it. I know we can. I have the magic, but I need you to direct it. Please.”

Harry awkwardly pushed himself up, bracing with his good arm while his left replaced Draco’s at wiping away the tears.

Draco gripped his wrist tight, “Please. Help me heal you. Please, Harry.”

Harry kissed him. He didn’t have the words, he couldn’t even say them if he did, so he acted. He kissed this gorgeous, incredible creature, this ethereal man who’d been through hell for the sake of this war and still managed to put his complete and utter faith in Harry. After all that had been done to him, after all their history, so much of it bad compared to too little and too recently good… but there Draco was, ready and will, practically begging to be used, to give what precious little he had to Harry, so that Harry could save a world that had turned on them both time and time again.

Harry kissed him and wished he deserved it.

“Please, Harry.” Draco whimpered against his mouth. “I love you. Let me make you whole again. Please, Harry. Please!”

 _I love you_.

Harry deepened the next kiss, ignoring the protest of the muscles and sinews all throughout his left side as he did so. In response, Draco’s hands fisted in his hair, clinging to his Master with an encouraging moan that was equal parts obscene and terrifyingly desperate.

_I love you._

Draco gasped wetly as Harry selfishly banished his clothing, leaving him with a lap-full of gloriously naked Conduit. He fell back onto the bed as gently as he could, Draco following him down with their mouths connected. Between them, he felt Draco’s cock jump to attention, ready and willing.

_I love you._

He hadn’t dared banish his own shirt, for both their sakes, but his pants were gone. He was half way there readily enough, but there was a gut wrenching moment as Draco grinded their hips together when Harry worried his body wasn’t up to the task. Then Draco was licking into his mouth and reaching down to encourage his erection with perfect, familiar touches.

_I love you._

Draco took care of them, one hand gently pinning Harry’s good shoulder to the bed with a reasuring weight. He spat into his other palm in a most uncharacteristic way and barely sparing a minute to open himself up. Despite the lack of prep, he threw his head back with a sigh and an eager shimmy of his hips as he slid down to join their bodies.

He was so beautiful, the sight of him was overwhelming. Harry felt his own tears leaking into his ears as his vision blurred, and for the life of him he couldn’t tell if he was crying from heartbreak or relief. Maybe both.

_I love you so fucking much._

He couldn’t move with Draco like he normally would. Instead of frustration or despair, he found himself surrendering to the rhythm and sway of his Conduit’s independent movements. He held those pale hips loosely, traced his fingers over slender thighs and smoothed his right palm over a firm buttock so he could feel the muscle work. He touched slowly, but far from lazy; he had never been more deliberate in such a heated moment as he was then as he appreciated Draco fully.

He was beautiful, yes, but there was so much more than a warm body between his hands, atop his body. Somewhere along the way, despite a million reasons and situations, Draco had given him his trust, his faith. His heart.

So many people had warned him that Draco wasn’t his boyfriend. They weren’t lovers, they weren’t owner and property. They may have been Master and Conduit, but Draco was never, _could neve_ r be his slave. Possibly for the first time, Harry fully appreciated him for what he was. In all the complexities of Conduit magic and the Bond, Harry knew it was really quite simple.

Draco was _his_.

They were not in a romantic relationship, strictly speaking. But as Draco rode him till they were both spent, watering eyes locked on each other, Harry knew this was the most intense emotional connection he would ever experience.

They were not in a romantic realtionship. They were Master and Conduit, and that was so much more.


	22. The Battle of Hogwarts, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Please don't sue me, JKR! Forgive my mild plagiarism for specific lines from Book 7. I own nothing, I am nothing.

“Incredible...”

Harry stood patiently as Hermione poked and prodded at him with critical, if amazed, eyes. Privately, he was both unnerved and grateful that she was expressing the incredulity and discomfort he didn’t feel right exhibiting outwardly.

He didn’t remember casting a spell or using the fresh influx of magic Draco had given him with their latest coupling. He barely remembered reaching orgasm. Nevertheless, he’d woken up hours later, pain free and light as a feather, with Draco slumbering like a peaceful angel, tucked safely against his side. It had been beyond disorienting, expecting pain and lack of movement only to find it gone before he’d fully had the chance to accept the injury.

For a wild, heart palpitating moment, he’d wondered if he’d been injured at all. Finally taking a good look in the mirror put that to rest, thankfully.

“You can’t remember the spell you used?”

Harry shrugged, paying close attention to the smallest sense of weirdness in the motion. There was no pain, of course, but now that he was looking for it, he could feel a distinct pressure along his collarbone and the upper outer edge of his chest where the thick, but fully healed scars hampered movement ever-so-slightly.

“I don’t think I used a spell, honestly,” he admitted.

Hermione, Ron, and Andy stared at him, their expressed unreadable beyond the varried degrees of expectation. It occurred to him that they had no way of knowing Harry had been using the Conduit magic via pure instinct and willpower; even when he’d been practicing by reconfiguring the house’ décor, he hadn’t exactly talked them through the spells (or lack there of) he’d been thinking of as he directed the magic.

“You…,” Andromeda paused and set Teddy on the carpet before standing, her movements sharp like she needed the activity to keep her head on straight. She sounded strained as she slowly let the thoguhts form on her tongue: “You _healed_ … a magically-resistant wound. Inflicted by a mutated werewolf. You just… _healed_ it. Without a spell.”

An expectant silence reigned at the end of her words.

Again, Harry shrugged. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re asking me or just… saying it. So… yeah.”

This time, it was Mindy Finstock who placed her hand over one of the largest patches of gnarled scars on his shoulder. She rubbed over it and he let her, sympathizing with the disbelief crinkling her brow.

“If I hadn’t seen it just a few hours ago…. How-- I mean… It’s like you’d done years’ of healing in a single night.” she whispered, to no one in particular. Then she looked around at them all and asked. “Is this normal? I mean, is this sort of… of _magic_ a regular thing for you folks?”

“No, Mindy,” Hermione said patiently. “Even magic has its limits. Draco can enable Harry to surpass those limits. Apparently.”

Harry couldn’t help the bashful flush that stole over him at hearing the way she’d tacked on that last word, like she was surprised and knew full well that she ought to just expect this kind of nonsense from him by now.

“And Draco…,” Mindy stared at Harry’s marred chest like it pained her to piece it all together. “This is why he was so ill the other night? He helps you doing stuff like this, and what… he pays the price for it?”

“No--” Hermione and Ron hurried to interject.

Harry pulled his jumper over his head and met the muggle’s eye as he settled the fabric around his torso. “Yesterday was the result of extenuating circumstances, Mindy. But yes, Draco has sacrificed a great deal to give me this kind of power,”

“Harry--” Hermione scolded, “That’s not being entirely truthful,”

“It’s true enough,” He cut her off without looking away from Mindy. “I didn’t make him like this, Mindy, but he didn’t choose it just the same. Draco cannot practice magic himself and if I need more than he can comfortably give me to save my life or anyone else’s, it can have some nasty side effects. I’m realistic enough to know that last night is probably going to happen again before too long, and he knows it just as well as I do.”

He was watching her face closely, so he saw the moment her shock and disbelief gave way to that indomitable maternal drive that had gotten her involved with Draco to begin with. The uncertain lines in her brow smoothed and her jaw hardened. The panicky, clueless muggle was gone and in her place stood the aggravating pain in his ass from the hospital.

“I have to get back to fighting a war.” He told her, cool and decidedly. “Will you help Andy look after him for me?”

She nodded curtly, jaw and eyes set in an unhappy determination. Harry thought he could relate all too well.

~!~

Draco wasn’t entirely awake, in fact he was mostly still sleeping. Harry’s lips on his cheek, his fingers brushing through Draco’s tousled hair, felt wonderful and cozy in the way all good dreams felt.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, and the unfamiliar gruff quality to his voice momentarily threatened the peacefulness of the dream. “I have to go, Draco, but I’ll do my best to come back to you,”

But then there were strong hands smoothing over his naked back and buttock in a way that Draco’s Conduit mind read as tender and possessive rather than sexual. Draco sighed and drifted further into sleep.

~!~

Harry, Ron, and Hermione apparated just outside of Hogsmead to worrisomely little fanfare. There were no alarms, no screams or sounds of battle. There was no sign of anyone nearby, hardly any movement. There was only a single large, coiling serpent and skull undulating across the sky.

In the distance, Hogwarts stood smoking and silent. The Astronomy tower was several stories too short.

They were too late. No. They couldn’t be—

“--Many of you still want to fight,” came the chilling voice of the Dark Lord on the still evening air, “Some of you may even think that to continue the fight is wise. But this is a folly. Your Ministry is deleted. Your sanctuary is crumbling. And your Chosen One has fallen beneath my wolves’ fang and claw. It is time to end this—”

Hermione’s hand gripped his, her fingers icy and shaking. Ron leaned into his other side, and it was anyone’s guess who was supporting who as a disbelieving, sickly anticipation washed over them.

“Give me Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord demanded, his soft voice echoing in their ears, “Do this and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave Hogwarts to its grief. Give me Harry Potter. You have one hour.”

~!~

“You’re going to make yourself sick, if you keep this up,” Mindy muttered under her breath as she rubbed his arms as if she could will the warmth back into him.

She couldn’t, of course. The sort of cold he was feeling was a matter of soul, not the body. Mindy could keep swarming him with blankets and hugs, Andromeda could keep pushing mugs of tea at him like the second coming of Ron Weasley, and it changed nothing. He was cold, the sort of cold that only coincides with a broken heart tied up in too much magic for its own good.

He’d woken up alone. Harry hadn’t even said goodbye properly, though Andromeda assured him it wasn’t for lack of trying. Draco was alone without his Master. Alone with only the gut churning anticipation for the fight ahead.

It was almost a relief when he finally felt Harry using the Bond’s power.

~!~

Hogwarts didn’t have a Chosen One to trade for mercy. There was an army of dark wizards and beast between them and the castle. They still had to kill the fucking snake before Harry could even consider an attempt on Tom Riddle himself.

These were the facts, just not quite all of them.

Because the Death Eaters had the brilliant idea of taking captive rather than killing any opposing purebloods they came across in the first skirmishes. It left a sizable bundle of furious witches and wizards perfectly situated in the thick of the Dark Lord’s forces, and well away from the castle doors.

Because Narcissa Malfoy did not forget, and she sure as hell never forgave.

Because Harry was not, in fact, crippled and bleeding out from his run in with Greyback’s mut.

And because Harry, Ron and Hermione… the three of them had ample experience throwing Death Eaters off their game. And this time they came at them from behind and with the full force of a Conduit Bond unlike any before.

~!~

Draco had expected a torrential onslaught similar to what Harry had done for the Fiendfire and the initial attack on the castle. He’d been braced for an overwhelming rush.

It never came.

Harry began drawing on the magic in small fits and starts. It felt… sneaky. And taunting. Good Merlin and Morgan, but it was the magical equivalent of fingers dancing feather-light across his skin. It was a creeping arousal instead of raging desire he’d expected, and in any other day he might have adored the feeling.

But this was today. Today, it felt wholly inappropriate to the situation.

~!~

Harry had a rough go of catching his breath after dodging the latest flurry of curses as he and Hermione drew more Death Eaters into the woods. They were drawing the attention, little by little, and dispersing the Death Eaters’ larger numbers to more manageable groups. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been picking them off like that, but it was starting to get old.

Merlin, but he hoped Ron had gotten near enough to free the captives by now.

“I think I saw Neville,” Hermione panting, tiptoeing around a trampled tree.

“Yeah,” Harry thought he’d seen Percy Weasley and a few familiar Aurors among the captives too. “Glad he’s not dead. He better stay that way,”

They’d lost enough friends and family. They’d gotten close enough to the gates to see what the sick fucks had done with Professor Burbage’s remains, and Harry couldn’t stand the thought of Neville or even Percy ending up like that.

Harry and Hermione jumped as the ruckus of an angry mob reverberated through the forest.

“What the hell—”

Then the area beyond the trees hosting the Death Eaters and their prisoners lit up like a Christmas tree, the war cries heralding a renewed fight.

“Ron!” Hermione thrust her fist in the air victoriously, then she fell in beside him as they ran toward the fray.

~!~

It took hours. Hours and hours. Draco wouldn’t let himself touch where he was slowly burning for it, but Andromeda kept clearing her throat and giving him this _look_ every time she’d catch him trailing fingertips over his thigh, teasing the skin along his clavicle. She’d slapped him upside the head the one and only time he’d subconsciously began humping a throw pillow in unsatisfyingly minute jerks.

“Remind me again why you won’t just… go take care of yourself?” Mindy asked, sounding pained.

Draco thought about that for a moment as yet another flash of tingling magic sizzled through his body at Harry’s command. Why, indeed.

Andromeda huffed impatiently and Draco felt her boney hand grab his wrist and drag his fingers away from his own cotton-covered nipple.

“He may be an overtly sexual creature, but he’s only human. It’s a matter of stamina.”

Mindy’s face scrunched up in thoughts that she clearly found as awkward as they were confounding. “So every time Potter uses magic, Draco gets…?”

“An oversimplification, but yes,”

A pause, then: “ _Every_ time?”

~!~

Neville Longbottom was a wonder. Watching him cleave the serpent’s head clear off with a gloriously mundane garden shearing spell was one of the most satisfying images Harry had ever been fortunate enough to see.

It was, quite possibly, second only to the look on Voldemort’s face when he recognized Harry had come to him of his own accord. He was alive and thriving, galvanized, and damn near glowing with the power of a Conduit.

~!~

Things were… heating up. In more ways than one.

“I have to…go,” Draco whined to no one as he stumbled down the hall to the bedroom.

Behind him, he heard Mindy ask haltingly, “Are you sure…? He was awfully stubborn about it earlier,”

“Draco knows his limits better than we do,” Andromeda replied. “And he knows Harry—”

He didn’t hear what else she said. He barely remembered to swing the door closed behind him in his hurry to get his pants down. Power was flowing steadily now, stronger and more intent than it had been in hours, and after so much teasing he couldn’t hope to keep the physical desire at bay.

He needed release. He needed his Master.

~!~

“Draco!? Is he alive?”

Harry spun and stared down at the dead Death Eaters between them, flummoxed. He could have sworn… no amount of magic, Conduit or otherwise, would save him from a stunner to the back when he wasn’t even aware it was coming. They’d had the drop on him.

“Is he alive!?”

Narcissa Malfoy’s own skull mask shattered beneath her foot as she stomped over it to get to him. The rage and earnestness in her face was nothing short of frightening.

Harry took a hasty step back as he abruptly remembered it was her son he was happily buggering.

“Is he in the castle?”

“No,” he collected himself and assured her, “he’s far from here, safe. He’s with your sister, actually,”

Narcissa’s fair face turned ashen and stoic, “… What?”

“Andromeda,” he clarified.

She closed her eyes and her entire body heaved with the force of a clarifying breath.

Harry looked around at the many bodies and the continued fighting, near and distant. Hogwarts’ inhabitants had joined the fray by now, and in the commotion Harry had lost track of the Dark Lord. His eyes lighted on Narcissa’s broken mask.

“Help me find Voldemort,” he told her, “Let me end this, and I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to reunite you with your son.”

Her aristocratic face—so like Draco’s and yet so very different, so less expressive— was difficult to read, but her eyes widened like that was the last thing she’d expected to hear. “You’re his Master. And you would… let me see him?”  

“Of course,”

~!~

“That’s enough, now.” Mindy scolded as she dragged him into the bathroom. “You’re a right mess, and you said so yourself, you need to pace yourself—”

“Fuck!” Draco cried as she dumped him in the tube. Instantly, his balls ached from the shocking cold. The unstoppable storm of Harry’s use of him was the only reason said appendages didn’t crawl up inside his body to hide. Infuriatingly enough, his dick didn’t even seem to notice.

It made him _ache_ in the worst—best—most messed up way.

Mindy didn’t understand, the stupid muggle. He needed to come again. He needed relief, and he needed his Master. What he really needed was his Harry, but physical relief was all he had at the moment. If. She. Would. Just. Let. Him.

It didn’t matter than his groin and guts still hurt in protest of the latest empty orgasm.

~!~

“Do you understand now, deluded ones!?”  the Dark Lord snarled at the last line of defense: the Professors, older students, and a patchwork assortment of Ministry and Order members, “He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves in his stead! He relies on that still! You will die honoring a boy who abandoned you in your hour of need! This is your final chance to surrender!”

Harry chose that exact moment to apparate through what remained of Hogwarts’ wards. He landed solidly, proudly, directly between Voldemort and the brave souls who defied him still.

~!~

Stillness. Blessed stillness.

Draco shivered, naked and wet with a bath towel the only thing protecting his bed from the cold water and sweat dripping off him. The magic had quieted, the raging desire Draco hadn’t been able to keep up with leveling out as if giving him a moment to catch his breath. And that was all it was: a moment. He could still feel Harry at the other end of the bond, not drawing on the power, but attending to it just the same. A weight of expectation and excitement filtered through the Bond, and it made Draco’s thigh muscles twitch, his toes curl, and his abs and sphincter clench.

It was a peculiar sort of dread.

Harry was about to do something big. He could tell. His body and Conduit mind wanted it like a starved man wants for sustenance. At the same time, the tiny, rational part of his mind quivered in anxiety and the utter knowledge that his body had reached its limit two or more orgasms ago.

It happened. His Master yanked on the Bond in one final, awesome surge. It zapped through Draco like fire and agony and love and every dream he’d ever dared dream. It used his wrecked body like a lightning rod, channeling power and urgency unrelentingly.

He didn’t get the chance to scream. One moment, he was stewing in the awful anticipation and the next… he was out cold.

~!~

Harry hadn’t used a spell, at least… he didn’t think he had. All he really knew for sure was that he’d raised his wand and reached for Draco at the same moment Voldemort sent a blazing Avada Kedavra straight at him.

“Harry?”

He was at King’s Cross Station, he realized abruptly. When… How… What.

“Harry, my boy. You did it, didn’t you?”

“… Dumbledore?”

And it was. Albus Dumbledore was sitting on the bench beside him, in the middle of an eerily empty, ghastly white train station.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said with that infuriating twinkle in his eye, “you haven’t figured it out yet, have you? Of course not. You always did manage the impossible by the seat of your pants. Carefully thought-out plans were more my bread and better.”

Harry could only stare at the dead man.

“I should have known better,” the old wizard said smilingly.

Harry didn’t quite believe it, even as he asked, “Am I dead?”

Dumbledore rubbed his bearded chin as he considered him fondly. “I think not. Perhaps.”

Harry followed Dumbledore’s gaze as it slid off him towards something on the ground behind their bench.

“The fuck!” Harry exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

Dark and grotesque amid all the pristine white, some misshapen creature was squirming around beneath the bench behind the one Dumbledore remained seated on. The thing was spindly and leaking unnamable fluids. It inspired a revulsion so strong Harry couldn’t keep looking at it. He just couldn’t.

“What _is_ that,” he demanded as he strove not to gag.

“Why, Harry,” Dumbledore said conversationally, “That is what made you The Chosen One.”

Harry frowned. “…. What. Explain.”

Dumbledore waved a hand toward the despicable thing, “That, I believe, is the final segment of Tom Riddle’s tortured soul. The eighth horcrux he never intended to create.”

Harry’s disgust turned to numbing horror. “… me?”

“Indeed,”

Harry looked at Dumbledore then, really looked at him, and the regret behind those half-moon spectacles was almost as uncomfortable as the revulsion he’d felt upon sight of the Horcrux personification.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said somberly, “I’m not proud of it, Harry. Please understand that. You were a means to an end, yes, but I was genuinely fond of you. And you… you have always been more than I ever imagined.”

Harry stumbled backward as the implication hit home. He… he was a horcrux. He’d lived nearly his whole life with that… that _thing_ ….

“ _The power the Dark Lord knows not…”_ he whispered, working it out aloud, “I thought it was the Conduit power, that Draco and I were destined—Oh Merlin, Draco!”

It was only then that fear gripped him. Harry whirled, eyes racing around all that blinding, endless white in search of an exit.

Draco. His Draco. He needed him. He couldn’t be dead. If he was dead, what would happen to Draco. Draco needed him. His Conduit. His… His…

“Oh, Harry,” Dumbledore said sympathetically from his relaxed seat on the bench. “What happened between you and Draco was of your own making. It had nothing to do with Voldemort.”

“But… I… No. It doesn’t matter.” Harry shook his head and started walking away, his back to Dumbledore. “I have to go back.”

Draco needed him. They were one, Master and Conduit, two sides to the same coin. Harry knew it with a certainty that terrified him all the more for how close they were to being separated. He was Bound to Draco; he couldn’t die without bringing his Conduit with him.

He was, Harry realized with an unnerving jolt, ready to die. He wasn’t ready for Draco to.

“I have to go back,” he repeated, determined.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” Dumbledore said softly, suddenly directly behind him, that wizened hand gentle and steering—always _steering_ —on his arm.  

Somewhere, everywhere and nowhere, a train whistle blew.

“It’s time to board the train, Harry.”

“Fuck you!” Harry yelled and pushed Dumbledore’s hand off him. “Fuck you, and fuck your prophesy! I did what you needed! It’s time for me to get what I need, and what _I need_ is my _fucking Conduit_!”

~!~

He was lost in an endless sea of white. There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls. Nothing. Just… a blank expanse. And himself.

“… Harry?”

He didn’t know where he was, or how he’d come to be there. He didn’t know where his clothes were, but that was such an insignificant thing, considering the absence of warmth, or chill for that matter. There wasn’t even a slightest breeze.

It was just him and all of eternity.

He could feel his own body, at least. He looked down at his fingers, his naked chest, his flaccid cock and skinny legs. He felt fine, better even. Healthy. Rested. Except… there was deep sort of aching hollowness in his chest, and low in his gut. It was like a… absence. Yes. A profound, devastating absence.

He hated it.

“Harry!?” he screamed into the vastness.

He waited a moment, and that moment felt endless. The longer it wore on, the more aware he became of the nonexistent Bond that should have let him feel his Master at the other end.

“Harry!?” he cried, hugging himself. “Harry! Where are you!? Answer me, dammit!”

He began to walk, with no sign of going anywhere. He walked without change, his feet never tiring, his stomach never aching with hunger, his eyes never drooping from exhaustion. He walked, searching, and then kept on walking.

It felt like he’d been there an eternity or only a heartbeat. He couldn’t tell. The only thing to change was his unease and fear, his need to find his Master waxing and waning in franticness. At some point, he wondered if he was dead, if this was the hell he’d earned as a stupid child, following his father’s footsteps into the ranks of a madman.

It had to be hell. That’s why Harry wasn’t with him. That had to be it.

“Harry, please!” he cried tirelessly.

And at long last, from a far, far way off, he heard his Master answer.


	23. The Aftermath

The Hospital Wing was quiet, but it was a normal, comfortable quiet. There was the gentle swish of robes and bedclothes, the clink of potion bottles and the occasional moan of patients. There were the creaks of bedsprings and soft whistle of the wind through the open windows. Harry even caught the distinct cadence of Madam Pomfrey’s hushed reprimands.

All but the wind fell silent when Harry sat up with his own quiet groan.

Harry blinked the stiffness from his eyes and looked around. Countless witches and wizards stared back at him from hospital cots and conjured chairs, all eyes wide and mouths gapping.

Harry felt his spine stiffen reflexively under the attention.

Padma Patil was the first person to break the sudden silence. She sidled up to his bed, smoothing her medi-witch robes over her stomach as if to hide the blood and potion stains.

“Harry!” she said his name breathlessly, wonder and tears making her voice shake, “You’re awake!”

It was impossible to hold her gaze, to stare boldly back at the amazement and worship he saw there. He looked around aimlessly and cleared his throat. When he spoke, he was jarringly reminded of the permanent damage that wolf had done him. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Yeah. Looks like it,” he agreed lamely.

The roomful of survivors didn’t seem to feel the same way. There were impressed gasps and tearfully hopeful murmurs. There was a massive rustling as everyone tried to lean toward him and get a better look without being too obvious about it. They all failed.

In the next moment, Harry’s mind seemed to download all the time he’d spent in a weird King’s Cross Limbo. He remembered everything in such a hurry, he swayed with the headrush. Padma and the two strangers seated closest to him jumped as if they planned to catch him in their collective arms, but he had no time for that nonsense.

These people weren’t why he was alive.

Harry hoped out of bed with every intention of Apparating straight to Draco’s side, but he just ended up taking two flailing steps forward and feeling lightly winded for the effort.

He couldn’t apparate.

“Mr. Potter!” Pomfrey’s voice shattered the impressed silence from clear across the massive room, “You get back in that bed this instance!”

He wasn’t that he couldn’t apparate. No one could go through Hogwarts’ wards normally. But Harry wasn’t normal. He had Draco…. Didn’t he?

“Easy, Harry,” Patil said soothingly, her hands reaching toward him like he was a spooked animal.

He reached for Draco, for his Conduit, desperately and he nearly cried when he found him. He was alive. His Draco was alive.

“You can’t go coming back from the dead and running around like it’s no bother!” Pomfrey hollered as she shoved his ass back onto the cot with less gentleness than was probably warranted, “I won’t stand for it! Not this time! You’ve gone too far!”

Harry wasn’t listening. All his attention was turned inward, focused on the mental-supernatural thread that linked him to his Conduit. He could tell Draco was exhausted, utterly used up in a way he’d feel bad about latter. But Draco was alive! The Bond was weak and raw, yes, and whatever magic reserves Draco had been storing throughout the battle had been drained dry.

But they were alive and still Bound! That was all that mattered.

“Someone needs to alert the Minister!”

“Tell the Professors!”

“The Weasleys! They’re his family, they should be told first—”

Harry only spared the attention necessary to know when Pomfrey was an acceptable distance away, her ire simmering to low, self-indulgent grumbles with her back to him. It took longer than it ever had when he’d been a student, possibly because this time he had actually _died_ , but her guard eventually lowered just enough.

Then and only then did Harry make a break for it.

~!~

He made it as far as the Entrance Hall. He might have been impressed about the accomplishment without his invisibility cloak, but the truth was everyone saw him. They were all just too stunned and amazed to see him alive and walking around, possibly too overcome with some sort of hero worship or gratitude, that they all just let him pass by unbothered.

That lasted right up until he found Hermione, flanked by Minerva McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt, waiting for him in front of the exit.

“No.” Hermione said sternly as he came to a halt. “No. Absolutely not. No. Turn around and march yourself back up to the hospital wing.”

“Hermione—” he tried to reason with her.

“You died!” she screamed, then seemed to remember herself and continued in an angry whisper, “You were dead, Harry. Dead. You and the Dark Lord just keeled over, and when neither of you got up… I held your cold body, Harry, and you. Were. Dead.”

He met her eye and tried to be sympathetic to her obvious pain. He really did. “I know, Mione. I’m sorry. If there’d been any other way, I would have found it. But look, Draco—”

“Mr. Malfoy is fine,” McGonagall assured him. “He’s with his mother and her sister, quite deeply asleep still, we’re told. I imagine he’ll be much the same after you’ve been seen by a healer,”

Harry frowned, unsettled at the knowledge that someone had been given access to his Conduit when he’d been so vulnerable, mother or no. “Narcissa’s with him?”

“Molly took her to the house soon as the Ministry released her on probation,” Kingsley explained, “I signed her release myself.”

Harry eyed him carefully, noting the crisply tailored lines of Kingsley’s decidedly non-Auror issued robes. Merlin, how long had he been out cold? What had happened?

Priorities.

“Voldemort’s dead?” He asked, just to make sure.

“Indeed,” McGonagall said, her tired eyes looking relieved.

“Not like you were, mind,” Hermione interjected testily, her eyes suspiciously shiny despite her fury, “He actually crumbled into dust not long after you started breathing again, you… you _wanker_ ,”

Silently, Harry reached out to her, and she slumped into him harder than expected as she hugged him, her eyes finally overflowing as she hid her face against his chest. Harry held her there, his right hand and most steadfast friend, and didn’t know what to say.

So he said nothing to her. He met the Professor’s eye, then Kingsley’s. “The Death Eaters?”

“Surrendered,” McGonagall replied with a sigh, as though recalling everything was draining more energy than the events themselves. Maybe they it was. “What was left of the Order helped the Ministry contain them, and they’re helping track down the few who’ve escaped. Once that’s over, I will be officially disbanded the Order, I think.”

“And the Ministry?” Harry directed this at Kingsley directly.

The man smiled toothily, “You’re looking at the new interim Minister of Magic.”

Harry nearly took a relieved breath, but first, he had to know: “And does your _interim_ Ministry still pose a threat to my Conduit, Minister?”

That wide grin dimmed to something somber and earnest, “No.”

Harry nodded.

“Nor does the Order,” McGonagall assured him, if unnecessarily. “That particular pressure point means nothing now that Alastor Moody’s dead, and especially since the Dark Lord had the grace to follow after him so shortly.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. He had viewed Moody as little more than an annoyance for so long, perhaps even an enemy since Draco came back into his life, but the man had been the backbone of so much good. The Order wouldn’t have survived Dumbledore’s death without him. It didn’t help that McGonagall’s tone and expression seemed equally distant and undecided as she spoke of him.

“Enough. Go get checked out by as many Healers as Pomfrey sees fit to throw at you,” Hermione commanded, pushing off of him with both palms to his chest. She nearly groped him there, as if reassuring herself of the heartbeat persisting in his body.

“Yes,” Kinsgley agreed, “Go, Harry. I’m sure Draco will be safe and waiting for you when you’re done.”

~!~

And he was.

Hours later, well after the sun had set a full six days after Tom Riddle vanished off the earth in a cloud of so much dust, Harry finally made it through Hogwarts’ partially restored front gate and apparated away to the house just outside of Burford.

Draco was waiting for him, sleeping peacefully in the same exact bed Harry had left him in a lifetime ago. Perhaps it had even been a literal lifetime, if his hazy memories of a blinding white train station were anything to go by.

“I knew you were dead,” Andy told him, her voice distant and without inflection. “When Mindy had to use a mirror to make sure his breath would still fog the glass, or we would have thought him dead. I knew then I’d lost you too.”

She’d slapped him when he first came through the door, then crushed poor Teddy between them till he whined with the force of her embrace.

“We may not have been close,” Andy assured him in that half-dead voice, “But you are all I have left now. You and Teddy,”

“That’s not true,” Harry whispered as he sat on the bed’s edge, eyes trained on Draco’s peaceful face. “You have Draco too. Maybe even Narcissa.”

Andy didn’t respond to this.

In the silence that descended, Harry reached out to hold Draco’s limp hand, relieved to find it warm and soft and perfect against his skin. With his other hand, he traced his fingers over the fine arch of Draco’s brow, along the sharp curve of his jaw, the long line of his nose. He gently outlined the bow of his lips and marveled at the perfect softness there.

He should have been dead, or at least deteriorating, after a week in a coma without any form of sustenance. Instead, he looked more beautiful than ever. It must have been the magic of their Bond, Harry decided. It didn’t mater that no Conduit or Master before had ever done what they’d done. Harry had no doubt that the Bond, so utterly depleted as it now was, had gotten that way because it had enacted Harry’s unrefined will to save their lives.

His Conduit had brought him back to life, and in return the Master had done the impossible and worked a little magic on his Conduit directly.

“I sent Mindy home after he began resting so peacefully.” Andy explained suddenly, reminding him she was there, “That’s how I knew you’d come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry replied softly, heartfelt and insufficient as it may be.

“I’ll just…” Andy shuffled at the doorway as her words caught in her throat. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Narcissa. If you need me,”

“Thank you,”

And then they were alone, just the two of them. Harry and Draco. Master and Conduit.

“My Draco,” he whispered, petting that lovely face again.

Draco looked like a fairy tale come to life. His pale skin was warm, even the slightest bit flushed from being under the covers so long. His hair shined like silver, soft and feather-light against the pillow. His lips were pink and perfect and begging to be kissed. It was as if he’d been enchanted and was just waiting for Harry to wake him like half a million storybooks foretold.

But of course, that wasn’t right. Harry’s story was over, he’d accomplished his destiny already. Someone had told him that recently, hadn’t they. They’d told him he was done. They’d told him…

He and Draco were entirely their own creation. They weren’t destined, they just… were.

And didn’t that just mean the world to Harry in that moment.

“Oh, what the hell,” Harry muttered, smiling to himself.

He leaned down and gave into the cliché urge to kiss his sleeping beauty, and he barely paused to lament the fact that Draco wouldn’t get the reference when Harry told him of this moment later. Maybe they’d find the old Disney film on The Netflix, as Draco called it.

So he kissed him. Harry traced those perfect lips with his tongue ever-so-slightly and plucked them open his own.

Draco moaned, low and sweet. He didn’t wake.

Harry gently pushed the hair off his Conduit’s head and nuzzled his jaw, whispering, “Draco. My Draco. It’s time to wake up,”

Draco let out a barely-there sigh and slept on.

Harry kissed his cheek, nipped lightly at his ear, “I love you, Draco. Wake up for me, yeah?”

Draco continued sleeping, breath even and utterly undisturbed.

Harry huffed a small, only slightly hysterical laugh against the pale column of Draco’s throat.

Draco didn’t even twitch.

“Wake up, Draco. Come on,”

But of course, Draco didn’t.

Harry began to sit up, but before alarm or misgivings could fully grip him he leaned back in and kissed the hollow of Draco’ throat, speaking in a normal volume. “You’re sure you don’t want to wake up, love?”

Draco, obviously, didn’t respond in any way. He remained blissfully asleep.

Harry nuzzled back into the blond’s neck. Then he deliberately and precisely opened his mouth and bit down hard. 

Draco’s entire body jerked. Harry felt the pulse beneath his tongue throbbed at the same time Draco gasped and hands grasped at his shoulders.

“Mmm,” Harry moaned around his mouthful, and dragged his own hand down over Draco’s suddenly thrashing body. He gripped one slender hip and pinned it to the bed. “Awake now, I see?”

“M-master!” Draco groaned, half asleep as he arched instinctively into Harry’s hold.

“Yeah, that’s my lover,” Harry murmured hotly in his ear. “Open your eyes for me. Show me how beautifully alive you are, darling,”

Harry pulled back a little, and he got to watch as awareness slowly crept into those grey eyes. Draco’s soft moans and whimpers of the newly awakened cut off with a gasp and his eyes widened the moment he realized he was alive and awake and who was looming over him.

“Harry!?” he said in the most heartbreakingly hopeful whisper ever uttered.

“Hey,” Harry smiled down at him, trying to convey every ounce of relief and apology and love and half a million other emotions in that one, lame word.

Draco surged off the bed. His arms and legs wrapped around Harry in an instant and he clung for all he was worth. His mouth found Harry’s and this time there was nothing slow or gentle or sleepy about it.

There was no hesitation, no overthinking. Harry lifting his hips and rolled them, landing Draco straight back into bed. Harry’s magic, back to normal strength for the first time in weeks, snapped out and vanished the bedclothes keeping so much skin from him. In an instant, Draco had gone from lazily waking up to frantically clawing at Harry’s shoulders, his naked body writhing while his lips and limbs pushed and pulled at Harry like he was possessed.

It was easily the most unrefined, desperately quick fuck they’d ever had.

There was no thought, no pause for any degree of consideration. There was hardly even pleasure. Certainly, they had all the right friction in all the right places, but it was a tad too dry and far too fast to be truly enjoyable.

It didn’t matter.

Harry came in record time and the Bond flared between them in celebration. Draco sobbed, the sound muffled as he bit into the scars on Harry’s shoulder, and the magic made him clench and come and come and come until his insides ached.

When it was over, they just lay there. They didn’t part. They didn’t speak. They just stayed, bodies joined and shaking from the intensity of the past few minutes, hands trembling as they touch each other, reverently noticing the living, breathing body against their own.

Harry rested his forehead on Draco’s chest and breathed deeply for a long, long time. At some point, he felt Draco’s fingers combing through his hair, nails scratching his scalp soothingly. He felt the Conduit’s shaking ease, then cease all together, and felt himself go lax.

Beneath him, Draco sighed as he took Harry’s weight. He kissed his Master’s head and as he lay his head back down, Harry’s cock finally slid free.

Still, they didn’t speak.

For the longest time, a moment suspended indefinitely, they lay like that. When Harry eventually lifted his head, he found the spot he’d bitten to wake the Conduit had had time to fully bloom into shades of black and purple. He nuzzled and kissed the bruise, unrepentant and worshipful.

Draco’s answering moan was so soft and quiet, Harry felt more than heard it.

They shifted a little as Harry shoved his arms beneath Draco’s body so he could squeeze him close, burying his face against that marred throat.

Draco grunted as the air Harry forced the air form his lungs. Then he hugged him back just as tightly.

And they didn’t speak.

They lounged in the magic as it flourished between them. They silently appreciated the revival of the Bond and the undeniable, soul-felt truth that it was both the thing that had endangered Draco and saved them both in turn. Harry had no doubt he would have died, for real, if he hadn’t had Draco as his Conduit.

On the tail end of that thought, Harry realized something else, and it was like feeling the last piece in a puzzle he hadn’t been aware of building had clicked into place.

Now, thanks to Draco, to his Conduit and the unique magic they’d created together, Harry was free. The Dark Lord was gone, and Harry was not only alive, he was inundated with a magic and love that he’d never appreciated so fully before.

_Neither can live while the other survives._

Harry was no longer surviving. Here, with Draco, he was finally _living_.


	24. Epilogue: 1 Year Later

Draco woke up hard and aching in the best way. Without opening his eyes, he moaned and slid his leg forward across smooth satin sheets so the fingers working him open could delve deeper. Which they did.

Harry kissed his shoulder and whispered, “We have a few hours yet before we have to leave,”

Draco hummed agreeably and pushed his hips back. He didn’t want to lose that beautifully relaxed state between sleep and full awareness just yet. He’d wake up fully sometime while Harry fucked into him, he was sure; it was his favorite way to start the day.

He’d started many, many days like that over the past several months.

Long, sure fingers dug deep enough to make him croon. The jolt of pleasure was almost enough to force his eyes open. Almost. Draco buried his face in the plush pillow to avoid it.

“Think you can come for me a few more times before then, love?”

Draco nodded lazily, rubbing his face into the pillow and his dick into those luxuriant sheets.

Harry’s fingers slid free. He gently rolled Draco fully onto his front, and a heartbeat later he felt his Master’s weight settle on him, that hard cock slicked up and ready.

“Merlin,” Harry sighed as he sank deep.

It was perfect. All Draco had to do was lay there, warm and receptive, and let his Master do all the work. In a while he would get impatient, wanting friction and more direct stimulation, and then he’d start participating. Maybe. If his Master let him.

It took a good while though.

In the meantime, Draco lounged on the opulent bed of the latest hotel room, enjoying the way Harry’s movements encouraged that ache in his hole and his hips. It wasn’t quite pain, not really, but the nice stretch and pressure like the massaging of overtaxed muscles. It _ached_ , yes, that was the word to describe it. It ached in the best way, and Harry brushed that bundle of nerves just often enough to make that achiness blissful.

Eventually, Harry’s inconsistent aim got to him. Draco squirmed.

Harry pressed him down, laying his full weight a top him. “Easy, love.”

Draco whined and tried pushing his hips back.

Harry laughed, low and quiet, in his ear. Then another absurdly puffy pillow was shoved under Draco’s hips and—

“Ugh!” Draco cried, face lifting so the breath could escape him.

“Yeah,” Harry moaned, doubtless loving the way Draco clenched now that they had the right angle. “That’s it, baby. That’s what you needed,”

The thrusts came harder, more direct. It wasn’t fast, but it didn’t need to be. After all this time, Harry knew full well how to work Draco’s body into a frenzy in seconds if he wanted. One fist grasped blond hair and the other a slender hip, firm and bruising but without pulling or restraining. He let Draco toss his head, let him squirm to his heart’s content under Harry’s bulk and just held him through it.

Draco ruined yet another expensive hotel pillow.

As his orgasm faded, leaving him panting and trembling, Harry’s thrusts eased. They didn’t stop. Of course not. He’d only just woken up properly, but he remembered Harry asking him to go _a few times_. At least.

At. Least.

He came a second time into that soiled pillow, Harry pinning him and biting bruises into his shoulder. For the third, he was on his back, and it came with the rush of fresh magic, their Bond singing sweetly as Harry filled him up.

Draco lay in the mess, panting and laughing as Harry took a break to feed Winnie and use the telephone to order room service for the two of them. Then Harry spent the next hour till the food arrived bringing Draco to yet another peak with his mouth.

Harry had showered, but Draco was still floating like a limp noodle in the jacuzzi bath when the food arrived.

“Out,” Harry flicked water at his face before turning away with the food, “Come on, I want to enjoy the beach view one last time,”

And really, Draco couldn’t disagree.

Coco Privé was lovely, and the beach-side room they’d paid extra for gave them the loveliest view of the ocean and some of the surrounding greenery. Mostly, though, it was clear skies and even clearer seas, the bungalow-style hotel suit practically on the water itself. The balcony wrapped around the full exterior of the hut, so they had no worries leaving the sliding doors open all night so Winnie could come and go as she pleased.

She never went far. She liked the down pillows and rich breakfast sausage just as much as Draco did.

Of all the places they’d visited in the past eight months, the Maldives were his favorite vacation spot. The menu at this particular resort was only part of it. There was perfect weather and perfect balance between privacy and convenience. That perfection was costly, of course, but worth it.

Especially since the funds supplying it were entirely derived from the Malfoy family fortune.

The day Lucius was officially tried and sentenced to life in Azkaban, Narcissa had jumped on the chance to liquidate all their assets. Since the Malfoy family had no official heir, Conduits themselves being property and not property owners, she had been utterly uncontested. She’d bought herself, Andromeda and Teddy a comfortable home in a little no-named town not two hours drive from Burford, then set them up for an equally comfortable retirement fund and a small trust fund for Teddy.

Then she converted every last sickle of Lucius’ vast fortune into muggle pounds and notes, and with Harry’s help put it in a muggle bank account under Draco’s name. Every time Draco charged the shiny black Visa card, he grinned and imagined his sire’s expression if he ever learned what his legacy had amounted to.

Which was how Draco and Harry ended up in Coco Privé for the second time in a year.

Shortly after Draco received his unofficial inheritance, Granger and the Weasleys had decided Harry had done more than his fair share of helping the Wizarding world recover. By the time Voldemort was four months gone, they’d all but barred him from the Ministry and Hogwarts’ grounds, and charged Draco with the task of convincing the Savior to take care of himself for a change.

So Draco had guilt-tripped his Master into a world-wide vacation of indeterminate length and flexible destinations. They packed one bag each, plus a pack of goodies for Winnie, and the three of them had jumped on the first international flight available.

Naturally, they got very acquainted with all manner of muggle travel measures from there, along with the finest muggle dining and boarding dear old daddy’s coin could buy. In eight months, they’d put a major dent in the horded Malfoy wealth while simultaneously smoothing the way through their own war recovery.

It was time well spent. They were just about ready to come home. Or something.  

Which was convenient, since Minister Shackelbolt and his personal assistant Hermione Granger were expecting them tomorrow night at the Anniversary Gala the Ministry was hosting in commemoration of the end of the war.

“I don’t want to go back,” Harry admitted once they’d eaten their fill on the balcony, still enjoying the sunshine and sea breeze.

Draco followed his gaze to the shiny, black-and-gold invitation currently sitting on the farther end of the table. The tropical bird who’d delivered it had caught up to them nearly a week ago, on their first night back on the island. They had both largely ignored it since.

Now, Draco seriously considered giving it to Winnie to chew up or piss on.  

“Then let’s not,” Draco said, settling back into his lounge chair with utter indifference. Like it was that simple.

Harry sighed.

“You don’t owe them anything,” Draco reminded him for the millionth or billionth time.

Maybe it was selfish of him, wanting to keep Harry all to himself. They’d had nothing to worry about, no one to concern themselves with, but each other, for the better part of the past year. Harry might not know if he was ready to give it up again to return to the wizarding world and the public eye, but Draco didn’t have that problem. For the first time in his life, Harry had been free of massive responsibility, and he’d been happy and carefree and he’d allowed Draco to witness it and soak up the excess joy and relief.

Merlin’s beard, the relief.

There were tears, laughter too, but so many tears. The pure relief of no longer carting around the decaying sliver of Tom Riddle’s wretched soul caught up to Harry at odd moments, even now a whole year later. The freedom from prying public eyes and the inappropriate socio-political pressures was nearly just as profound. They’d left the magical community behind them when they’d decided to travel, and it was amazing how immediately Harry appreciated no longer being recognized on the street.

The only people who stared at him now were the muggles who couldn’t quite hide their reactions to the werewolf scars on Harry’s face and neck. Surprisingly, such stares didn’t seem to both Harry at all, not compared to the total anonymity he got to enjoy at the same time.

When Harry didn’t respond, Draco snuck a glance across the table to see him staring out at the ocean. The reflection of the waves made his green eyes gleam like aquamarines. The wind blew the dark hair back from his face gently, and those beautiful eyes closed, those lips that could take Draco apart with a word or a motion curved just slightly in the simple pleasure.

No, Draco decided firmly. He wasn’t ready to lose this version of Harry. Not yet. He was a selfish creature after all, and his Master was his world. Now more than ever.

“I mean it,” Draco pressed, “Let’s stay. Let’s buy our own mansion in the Maldives and never go back,”

Harry snorted sardonically, “Yeah? What about Ron and Hermione? Andy and Teddy? Your mother?”

Draco rolled his eyes, “They can come visit us. Obviously,”

“Narcissa has a dark mark,” Harry reminded him, smiling softly in that way Draco knew meant he found him endearingly silly, “She’ll never be let out of the country again,”

Draco scoffed, “Fine. We’ll go see her. Every year for Christmas.”

“For Christmas,” Harry repeated, doubtful and amused.

Draco gave a succinct nod and readjusted his sunglasses so he could stare at the ocean without squinting, “Yes. That way we can enjoy perfectly warm weather year-round, and still appreciate the biting cold and snow for one week of the year and no longer. Yes, the more I think on it, the more it appeals. Harry, I’m buying a house in the Maldives. We can send for the rest of our things.

“Oh! Do you think Granger would be willing to portkey-transport it all to us if we bribe her with a significant donation to the Welfare of Whichever Disenfranchised Being of the week she’s focusing on now?”

Harry laughed.

Draco mentally patted himself on the back. He did so love the sound of Harry’s laughter, gruff and low as it was since he’d had his throat injured. He couldn’t help by find something a little bit sensual in the sound, no matter if that was Harry’s intention or not.

“Silly man,” Draco chided fondly, already reaching for his phone. He’d gotten quite proficient with the device in the past eight months, almost like a native muggle, “You think I’m joking.”

Within seconds, Draco had a search engine showing him several pages of options for available real estate within a hundred miles.

“Well, well,” Draco taunted, one fine brow lifting, “Harry, how do you feel about outdoor shower stalls? Oh no, never mind. This one isn’t on the beach. I want a private beach,”

“You don’t need a private beach,” Harry assured him.

“Of course not,” Draco agreed, “I _want_ one,”

That rumbling laugh sounded again. “Draco. We’re not moving to Coco Privé.”

Draco let the phone drop into his laugh as he gave the other an unamused glare. “You’re really going to sit there a shit on my dreams, Potter?”

Harry gave him _a look_ , the kind that made everything between Draco’s legs clench with anticipation.

Draco smiled and fluttered his eye lashes innocently.

“ _Master_ Potter, to you,” Harry corrected, expression somehow, miraculously, _convincingly_ composed, “And I reckon I do plenty to satisfy your dreams,”

Draco’s smile turned a little less innocent as he let his legs fall to either side of lounge chair. “Maybe.”

Predictably, Harry’s gaze wandered down the length of his body, taking in Draco’s pale, naked form. The bath towel he’d worn to breakfast might have covered him sufficiently, except the front had been pulled a little out of place when he’d spread his legs, showing off the majority of one inner thigh, and just enough shadow to hid his balls and half-hard cock from view.

“You manipulative brat,” Harry muttered.

“Slytherin,” Draco reminded him, tapping his own chest in emphasis. If his fingers trailed over his nipple at the end of the movement, that was pure coincidence.

“Damn it.” Harry grumbled, sounding quite irritated as he got up and retreated into the bedroom.

Draco bit his lip and plucked at his nipple with more intention while he waited.

A moment later, he heard Harry jostling the hotel’s telephone about and angrily punching buttons. “Yes,” he snapped, “Unit sixteen. Yes. I need to extend our stay.”

Draco grinned and untied the knot of his towel.

~!~

That evening, newly appointed Minister Kinsgely Shacklebolt proudly dedicated the new fountain statuary in the Ministry’s lobby to the casualties of the Great Wizarding War. The monument depicted a jean-clad muggleborn shaking hands with a traditionally-garbed pureblood, children from a variety of backgrounds clamoring for attention at their knees. It was beautiful and thoughtful, with water spouting from both wizards’ wands and the many fingers of surrounding young ones.

The following morning, The Prophet began speculating at The Savior’s absence from the celebration gala. This was the latest in a long line of questions about Harry Potter’s sudden retreat from the wizarding world, but it was the first to end up on a front page.

In response, no less than a week later, the Quibbler outsold the Prophet for the second time in its history, with the front page showcasing a full-color photo of The Chosen One kissing his Conduit, with war heroes Ronald Weasely and Hermione Granger, and an unnamed, if official-seeming muggle standing close by. The headline read: HARRY POTTER AND DRACO MALFOY TIE THE KNOT!

The same photograph appeared that same day on the evening edition of the Prophet, with the far less satisfying headline: CHOSEN ONE ELOPES WITH NON-WIZARD PARTNER!

Another week goes by, with many more headlines, and Narcissa Black sued The Prophet on behalf of her son-in-law for slander and defamation.

It turns out, no one had ever bothered marrying a Conduit before in a legally recognized muggle ceremony, and there are no laws, magical or otherwise, against it. It leaves the whole wizarding world reeling as they’re forced to accept Narcissa’s legitimate position as Harry’s family. This is, of course, reinforced when a bemused Harry signs off on allowing her and Andromeda to act as his official advocates among the greater wizarding world; which is all well and good, since idleness after the war did not suit Narcissa well.

Coincidentally, Draco’s rights as Harry’s spouse are never up for discussion, since the muggle world they chose to live in doesn’t recognize or care about his position as a Conduit.

Eventually, months later, the news dies down, and the name Harry Potter is only occasionally mentioned as an aside. It’s around this time that Harry buys a lovely little house in southern France.

And Draco bought them a vacation home in the Maldives.


End file.
